Electric Ladyland
by Incanto
Summary: Women are being killed in Tokyo's high-tech Akihabara district, and the BAU is called in for their first overseas consultation.
1. Briefing

_Author's Note: An old-fashioned case file, possibly a bit Reid-centric but then isn't everything. Takes place during the current season, but makes no reference to current events (like Rossi's ex-wife). Enjoy!_

* * *

W.B. Yeats wrote: "We have fed our hearts on fantasy; the heart's grown brutal with the fare."

* * *

Reid, cradling an overfull briefcase and squirming within the confines of a new blue suit, was last to arrive in the conference room. He immediately noticed Garcia and Prentiss beaming at him.

Morgan, spinning a pen between the fingers of his left hand, asked casually: "You been looking pretty stressed these days, man. How's a vacation sound?"

Reid set down the briefcase and looked up cautiously. "Why do I get the feeling there's something I don't know?"

"We were thinking Japan," said Prentiss innocently.

"The ancestral spawning grounds of the American _noid_?" Garcia added, helpfully.

Reid blinked.

"You know," he said, "I kind of resent the implication that, simply because I am what some might describe as a species of 'nerd,' I automatically must love Japan. In fact it demeans both myself and the nation of Japan."

Prentiss rolled her eyes. "Give it a rest, Dr. Reid. How many episodes of Sailor Moon do you own on DVD?"

He looked down. "All forty-eight," he muttered, "and the three OVA's."

Morgan cackled.

Wedging himself into his seat Reid went on: "Besides, there's a great deal more to Japan than the best electronics and entertainment in the world. Such as one of the largest historical navies, with the largest battleships, ever seen by mankind, that stood a chance of toppling Western Judeo-Christian hegemony for good. Or a major trading partner, not mention dynamic player in the increasingly unstable eastern hemisphere…"

Hotch, as always most serious of the group, was wrestling with an uncooperative projector. "Settle down, everyone."

Rossi nodded. "I doubt you'll be in such a chipper mood after you see the cause of our upcoming vacation."

Garcia pressed both hands to her face. "Sir, sorry, just give us our little moment before the dry heaving starts? Please? I'm well aware this is not the ideal career for experiencing foreign lands."

"Still beats the army on a good day," said Rossi, a sullen note in his voice.

"Hmm?" said Prentiss. "Did your naval career ever take you through the Land of the Rising Sun, Dave?"

He nodded, curt.

"And?"

"And I…did some things I'm not entirely proud of." Prentiss raised her eyebrows; he waved his hand impatiently. "You know what I mean. It's easy to get carried away. Indiscretions. No lasting harm done…but you look back and think, My God…"

"You speak Japanese, Reid?" Morgan deftly changed the subject, "I always forget which five million languages you got."

"Some. Very little. Depending on when we leave, I might be able to reach a level of basic comprehension. But it's an extremely difficult language. The CIA rates it in the highest difficulty tier for English-speakers, along with Mandarin and Arabic."

The projector finally hummed online. Hotch tugged on his shirtsleeves before moving to the front of the room. "We have three bodies in the course of as many weeks," he began. "The most recent belongs to Ayumi Tosaka, twenty-three…a waitress in a cafe."

A photograph of a somewhat plain, shy-looking girl against a white background filled the screen. She wore a black sweater, and had been trying to smile. Garcia bit one fingernail. The briefing was by far the most difficult part of her desk job.

"Ms. Tosaka," said Hotch, his tired face lit dramatically by the beam of the projector, "was pushed from an elevated train platform in Akihabara Station, Tokyo, during the evening rush hour."

Morgan was sharp: "How do we know for sure?"

"Japan suffers from the fourth-highest suicide rate in the world…" Reid added.

"Please," said Prentiss, "even we know that."

"What you might not know is that most subway stations are fitted with metal barriers to prevent suicides. The network of elevated trains has no such safeguards, making suicide more likely."

"But also accidents?"

"Chillingly enough, suicide is far more common."

"That would be a logical conclusion. Especially," said Hotch, and switched the slide, "as this note was recovered from the victim's jacket pocket."

The scrap of paper was torn, crushed and partly covered by a mud-brown stain. An analysts's reconstruction, with translation for good measure, appeared beside it.

_Dear Yu,_

_Perhaps we really did kill ourselves that day six years ago._

It was unsigned.

"This _Yu_ is probably an initial," said Hotch. "I'm told it couldn't be a full name in itself."

Morgan, looking grave, tossed the pen between his hands. "Well either way, looks pretty open-and-shut to me. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"And drop it shall," said Rossi, who had evidently received a partial briefing ahead of time. "The two other bodies he mentioned? Both had _identical_ notes on their person. Right down to the spacing of the characters."

Hotch nodded. The screen changed to portray two other women, both, like the first, unassuming and, in the present context, pitiable. "Mei Oda and Maya Asano. Killed in the same manner and while waiting for the same train. Both also waitresses."

"Of course," Reid put in, "given the neighborhood, they might not have been waitresses in the ordinary sense."

"Do tell," said Rossi. "Are we talking about some kind of red-light district?"

"Not exactly. I'll, um, explain later, it's complicated. But it's a question of what establishments they were waitresses _at_."

"You mean maid cafes," said Morgan and, when Reid stared, threw up his hands: "You pick these things up, man!" Prentiss silently mouthed to Garcia: _maid cafes_? Garcia only nodded.

"It isn't only maid cafes," said Reid, "there are any number of themed cafes and restaurants in Akihabara. It's the mecca of what's called _otaku_ culture-which is to say, the sort of thing you all seem to imagine I love, and which to be fair I kind of do. Anime, manga, video games…"

Rossi also looked incredulous: "_Any number_ of themed cafes?"

"Well there are cosplay cafes, where people dress as their favorite characters; little sister cafes…"

"Little sister cafes."

"Like I said," Reid shrugged, "it's complicated.-Anyway, all I'm trying to say is that even if these victims didn't share an employer, they might be connected by a stratum of fetish culture. I say fetish," he added with a glance at Rossi, "but it's not strictly sexual."

"I'm sure we'll appreciate your expertise in regards to this case, Agent Reid," said Hotch. "Anyone else? Thoughts?"

"Are they certain death was caused by the impact of the train?" Prentiss ventured.

"Beyond a doubt. These young women were alive when they fell. We can conjecture that the unsub stood behind them, threatened them silently with a weapon-a knife or gun pressed against the back-then slipped the notes into their pockets before delivering the push."

"Hmm. Well, if these women were connected to a…fetish culture, it's not hard to see the element of obsession. A lonely, possibly impotent unsub, driven to violence against unobtainable beings of attraction…"

"Agreed."

Reid raised his hand. "I have one question. Am I correct that this is the first time our unit, or in fact any unit, has been called in for an overseas consultation?"

"Correct," said Hotch.

"With all due respect, sir…why? The one case in Mexico involved a police force unused to dealing with psychopathology, but the phenomenon of serial killers is far from unknown in Japan. Miyuki Ishikawa, a midwife who preyed on infants, was especially prolific at over a hundred…"

With a brief shake of his head to stem the genius in his information dump, Rossi answered: "The fact of the matter is, we ought to be proud. This unit does good work, and it hasn't gone unnoticed. The chief of Tokyo police is an open-minded guy…we've spoken several times by phone. They'd like an outside prospective."

"If this goes well," added Hotch, "it could open a new chapter in international law enforcement cooperation."

"So, like, no pressure or anything," frowned Garcia.

"I will be holding this team to our highest standard of professionalism. Now, as you know, Agent Jareu is enjoying a well-deserved legitimate vacation; which is unfortunate, as we need a public relations officer perhaps more than ever. We'll be provided translators; but Agent Reid, however much Japanese you can pick up in the next four days…"

Even Reid had to gape. "_Four days_?"

Hotch managed the tiniest smile. "We have faith in you, Doctor.-You'll find details of our departure information in the briefings in front of you. I would encourage the rest of you to learn as much as possible about the local environment; apprehending the unsub won't be our only challenge."

Garcia looked up. "Including me, sir?"

"Yes, Agent Garcia, you will be accompanying us. Meeting adjourned."

As the others filed from the room, some looking thoughtful, others worried, Garcia remained for a moment at the table; and when they were out of sight, allowed herself a small, guilty grin.


	2. Captain Hajime Sasaki

Arriving early on a rainy September morning, the team had little chance to take in the scenery. Expedited through customs, they were ushered through a series of fluorescent-lit rooms in the heart of Narita airport, past workers and officials who eyed their jet-lagged faces with curiosity. Finally they emerged through a somewhat dingy backdoor where two long black cars with tinted windows waited.

A man in a cream-colored suit stepped forward.

The briefing had contained two salient facts about Captain Hajime Sasaki; that he had studied psychology at Oxford before returning to Japan, and that at thirty-six years old, he was the youngest man ever to hold the post of Chief of Tokyo Metropolitan Police. He looked younger. His hair was combed smartly back and he wore a pair of frameless spectacles so stylish they could have been vanity glasses. He looked friendly and a bit sheepish.

There was a moment of confusion as Hotch, holding out a business card with both hands, gave a deep bow, while Sasaki leaned back and extended one hand. They reversed the procedure with about as much success. Finally, both chuckling, they shook hands and Sasaki took Hotch's card, digging in one pocket for his own. "Sorry, I didn't know we were doing that…" He spoke crisp English without much of a British or Japanese accent. "Captain Sasaki, Tokyo Police. I presume Agent Hotchner?"

Hotch nodded. "Pleasure to meet you, Captain. This is my team, agents Morgan, Rossi…"

"Ah, Agent Rossi, so good to meet you in person…"

"…Prentiss, Garcia, and Doctor Spencer Reid." As usual, he introduced Reid by his title, to give the reedy-looking young man an aura of legitimacy; but it escaped no one that Reid looked rather like Sasaki himself.

"Ah, Doctor Reid!" Sasaki stuck out his hand. "I read your paper on game theory with great interest."

Reid, turning pink, made a half-bow and muttered: _"Y-yoroshiku onegaishimasu_."

It came out in a girlish squeak. Laughter rose from the officers standing behind Sasaki, and he turned and glared. Garcia snorted.

"_Yoroshiku_," Sasaki returned seriously, then to Hotch: "Well, let's get moving. You must be exhausted; we'll drive you to your hotel where you can rest for a few hours."

Rossi, Prentiss and Garcia, all yawning, made for the forward car; Hotch and Morgan climbed into the rear with Captain Sasaki. Before joining them, Reid cast a look back over the airfield. It was still dark; lights blinked lonely across the horizon, and a greasy light rain was falling, falling. He shook his head.

"You okay?" Morgan whispered.

"Sure, it's nothing. I just like to get a first impression."

He lowered himself into the rear seat, next to Morgan and Sasaki. Hotch sat up front beside a silent and humorless-looking driver.

* * *

They had been driving less than a minute when Sasaki let out two huge sneezes. "Sorry, sorry," he buried his nose in a handkerchief, "it's this time of year, it plays hell with my sinuses.-Plays? Is this correct?"

"_Is_ hell on my sinuses," Reid corrected unconsciously.

"Oh yes, of course. I'm out of practice..."

"Your English is _very_ good," Morgan offered. "We're lucky our translator and liaison officer can be the same guy. How long were you at Oxford?"

"Four years, four years. But do you know…sorry to be so talkative, it's just, I am excited! Look, I'm not going to give you some stupid runaround about how your Western methods will never penetrate the Oriental psyche. But when I was studying psychology, it began to feel like…like a badly-fitting glove, do you know what I mean? It still conformed basically to the shape of the human hand. But it was uncomfortable."

Reid had begun to nod. Morgan looked somewhat baffled, but interested.

"We have our own profilers," Sasaki went on, "but we mostly use your tools. It's still a fledgling science. I hope to learn a lot from you."

"And us from you," Reid added politely.

Sasaki waved one hand. "Oh, don't give me that. Sometimes an exchange is one-sided. But perhaps, after all, there is something in your methods that won't work here. Then you would learn something. It remains to be seen."

"With all due respect, Captain, I think it would be literally impossible for me not to learn anything."

"Hmm…well, this is all going to sound very broad and stereotypical, but I think the main difference…the crucial difference is, Europeans are more optimistic about the possibility of understanding human behavior. To us, the mind is more like a dark pit, which anything might come out of…that's too artistic. I'm making a fool of myself. But you get my drift. Drift?"

Reid nodded.

"A dark pit," said Morgan. "I like that. I think I've seen a few of those pits."

"Exactly! You can approach to a point…but beyond that, perhaps…Doctor Reid, have you read Shusaku Endo? His _Foreign Studies_? About the Japanese scholar studying the Marquis de Sade. How Western scholars are trying to understand De Sade's lusts and perversions as something intellectual. Whereas for him, passions are just that: passions. What's more mystifying is that some people can control them."

Reid had not read _Foreign Studies _but he continued to nod.

"Anyway, this is a very safe country. Certain kinds of crime are almost unheard of. But when there _is_ crime…"

Hotch leaned back. He had been listening, quietly, but it appeared he had nothing to contribute to the discussion. "Sorry to interrupt, Captain, but do we have an itinerary for the rest of the day? We'll be happy to get some rest, but we'd also like to get to work as soon as possible."

"Of course," said Sasaki, then sneezed again, and Reed jumped. "Sorry.-You'll be meeting my boss, Superintendent Hasekura, Federal Police. Well he's not my direct superior, but he could snuff out my career with a wave of his hand. He's been supportive of my decision to call you in, but to him it's a publicity stunt.-Don't tell him I said that. He's a politician, that's all. He's never worn a uniform; he got the job because he's a Tokyo University old boy. Sometimes I don't think he cares about finding whoever killed those girls."

Reid and Morgan shared a guilty smile. "We got people like that in our organization too," said Morgan. Sasaki grimaced.

"Hasekura-san has an evening of festivities planned for you. He's shipped in professional geisha from Kyouto. I would suggest you try and get out of it."

"Why's that?" asked Reid.

"First, you'll be bored to tears; second, I agree we should get to work. I have a guide to take you around the neighborhood of the crime. You can take in the local color and investigate at the same time."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Hotch, then regretfully: "But as team leader, I can't just snub Hasekura. That would look bad. I think at least one of you should go with me."

"Prentiss was saying on the plane she was interested in traditional dance and music," Reid casually let slip.

"Sounds like she just volunteered to take one for the team," said Morgan.

"Then it's settled. You two, Rossi and Garcia will go with Captain Sasaki while we keep up the diplomatic end."

Sasaki was grinning like a schoolboy at the intrigue passing in front of him. He made no attempt to hide his dislike of Hasekura, a surprisingly frank attitude.

Reid said in the same casual tone: "Oh, and before I forget, Captain, Agent Rossi expressed a particular interest in visiting a…what was it? Little sister cafe?"

To which Morgan nodded seriously.

Sasaki looked a bit surprised, but murmured: "That could be arranged."

The outside world was invisible through the darkness and rain. They might have been traveling down an endless tunnel.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the other car, Garcia was glued to the pages of her guidebook. She had bought it the day before they left and it was already well-thumbed. Prentiss, unaware that she had just been volunteered for diplomatic service, leaned back with one hand over her eyes.

"…Ueno is one stop from Akihabara, and there's a zoo and a museum…they've got new pandas at the zoo! The old one died in two thousand eight, _so_ sad, and they're having a contest to name the new ones…and the museum is doing a special on Buddhist statuary from Toudaiji Temple in Nara, except the _ji_ part _means_ temple, so it's kind of like saying ATM machine and…oh, oh god. This is really bad, isn't it? This is like, Nero-level messed up."

Prentiss knew what she meant. Very slowly, she shook her head. With her eyes still shut she spoke: "Garcia, feeling bad isn't going to bring anyone back to life. If you get the chance to enjoy yourself during this investigation, I say you should take it."

From the front seat Rossi said: "I'm with Agent Prentiss. Things will be hard enough without making them any harder on ourselves. Besides, this is your first time in Japan, isn't it?"

"How_ever_ could you tell?"

"What about you, Emily? You asked me before, but you didn't tell."

"Once or twice, yes. On business. Just shuttling between the airport and the hotel. I never got to see the country.-You think Reid is really in the land of his dreams?"

"He and Captain Sasaki seemed to get along well."

"Oh, _totally_ two peas in a bespectacled pod," Garcia agreed. Then a thought struck her and, in a more serious tone, she went on: "Um…you guys? I was thinking before, and I know this totally isn't my job or anything? But couldn't this just be…some kind of really weird suicide pact? Sorry, that came out of nowhere."

But Rossi was nodding. "The idea crossed my mind. But the information about the suicide notes wasn't leaked to the press, so they couldn't be copycats. All these women would have agreed ahead of time to do this at these intervals, and I don't buy that. Except for the ah, unusual method of attack, this profiles like a classic sexually obsessed serial killer."

Prentiss said softly: "That's been bothering me. The method. It is unusual, and it's hard to profile as distinctively male or female…in fact. If not for the notes? It would look like criminal mischief. Like something a child might do." "Or a high school student," Rossi suggested.

"I know this is a shot in the dark," said Garcia, "but have either of you seen _Battle Royale_?"

"I haven't had that pleasure.-Hang on," he dug out his vibrating cellhpone, "it's Reid…oh. Well, this is just terrific."

He showed Prentiss the glowing text: _Sasaki says little sister cafe is a go ^_^_

She smiled. "You should go, Dave. You might expand your horizons."

"To be honest? I'm not sure I'd trust myself in a place like that."

"You mean those _indiscretions_ you mentioned before? Well, Reid made it all sound very innocent."

"Oh yeah," said Garcia, "it's totally not a sex thing. Except, sometimes it is?"

"Terrific," Rossi repeated, shook his head, and blew through his lips. Suddenly the transceiver crackled; a voice spoke in Japanese. The driver replied in kind. Then he turned to Rossi and said impassively: "Your hotel."

The darkness on their right was interrupted by a huge, bright structure, floodlights dazzling the rain-smudged pavement. Prentiss peered through the window. A sign read: _Hotel New Otani._

* * *

It was cold.

He didn't know how long he had been standing there, waiting. There was a clock nearby, but it had stopped some time ago.

It was snowing. Or was it raining? The top of his head was wet. In the indistinct gloom ahead of him stood a figure. Then he realized he hadn't been waiting: _she_ had. And his heart jumped as he wondered how long.

He tried to move towards her, but his legs had gone stiff with cold. He opened his mouth; a cloud of steam escaped, but no sound. It seemed like she was getting further away…

Reid spasmed awake.

His heart was thudding. He suffered a further moment of panic, not knowing where he was; the crisp white hotel room, lit through the drapes by an afternoon sun. Of course. For the first time in his life, he had woken up in Japan.

The dream hadn't been so disturbing. Certainly not compared to some in recent memory. So why had it felt like a nightmare? He continued to breath, his narrow chest heaving.

Recovering from addiction was more than fighting a craving. It meant knowing, in a moment of crisis, there was no sure way of feeling better. It meant facing the world alone. Even when the cravings receded, that knowledge remained. The drugs always worked; the trouble was they worked too well.

He managed to get to his feet and stagger across to the bathroom. After staring into the mirror for five seconds, he closed his eyes, and the images of the dream were still vivid. It must be something he'd seen in real life. Then the words of the note recurred powerfully:

_Dear Yu, perhaps we really did kill ourselves that day six years ago._

He'd read those words somewhere before.


	3. Night Train

_It only took three chapters, but the BAU finally arrives at the scene of the crime. Can they outwit the unsub? Find out tonight on...CRIMINAL MINDS_

_Don't forget to review, and thanks to those who have!_

* * *

"Oh jet lag, jet lag, why dost thou persecute Penelope Garcia? Hello, good morning…good afternoon…my body's telling me it should be the middle of the _night_…"

She lurched into the private dining room, dressed in the hotel's complementary white robe. She was a bit surprised to see the rest of the team, kneeling at the breakfast table, similarly attired; gone native overnight. Morgan was looking especially fetching with a triangle of his hairless chest showing. He clicked his chopsticks at her.

"Wakey-wakey, babygirl, eggs-n'-baccy. Or, whatever this is."

"Tofu, grilled fish and miso broth," Reid provided, and, taking a bite, spoke around it: "S' good."

"Fish? For _breakfast_?"

Unable to sleep last night in spite of her fatigue, she had stayed up perusing her guidebook and, perhaps unwisely, tucked into the room's minibar. She'd passed out at eleven in the morning, full of scotch, and her stomach roiled at the smell of burnt fish.

Hotch looked the most Japanese of the group, sitting properly cross-legged and holding the bowl close to his mouth. Rossi for his part had spilled crumbs of tofu and drops of soy sauce down the front of his robe, and showed no signs of improvement.

"Oh, dear…" Garcia knelt beside him. "Sir, give me those…see? Hold them like _this_."

He wiped his beard and grumbled: "We gave these people firearms and they took to them just fine. I don't see why the fork never caught on."

Grimly he impaled a chunk of tofu on the end of his chopstick, and got most of it into his mouth.

"What time is it?" Garcia asked Hotch.

"Two forty-five. We're scheduled to meet Superintendent Hasekura in the lobby at three, so we're running a little behind, but I'm confident…"

Even as he spoke, two silhouettes appeared behind the large rice-paper door on the opposite wall. It slid open.

Rossi looked up, mortified. In a rather feminine gesture Morgan cinched his robe shut. A tall, beefy man sauntered in, trailed by an extremely apologetic-looking Sasaki. Behind the other man's back, he set his teeth and made a half-bow to Hotch.

Hotch quickly got to his feet. "Superintendent Hasekura? Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, FBI. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Oh, yes, of course! So sorry to ah, intrude. But I am not like, ah, clockwork, sometimes I get a little early. You like this Japanese food, yes?"

Hasekura was a handsome elderly man, jowly, with a mane of silver hair and gold cuff links on the sleeves of his glossy suit. His English, while much inferior to Sasaki's, was impressive; but when he spoke he seemed to be constantly pushing excess air from his lungs. He bowed to Hotch.

"We say, _hajimemashite_. It means, for the first time. Like your name, eh, Hajime? He is the first-boy! To be in charge of his department. But I make a joke with him, he is a very good boy. Isn't that right, Sasaki-kun?"

"_Hai_," muttered Sasaki.

"Now you say after me, Agent Hotchner: _ha-ji-me-ma-shi-te_."

Hotch replied with precision: "_Hajimemashite_." Then, for good measure: "_Yoroshiku onegai itashimasu_."

Hasekura pretended to applaud. "Ha, ha! Very good. Oh, and you are using ah, chopsticks! Very good, you will get on very well here."

"Superintendent, on behalf of the team, I'm privileged to be consulted in this case. We can't provide you with a silver bullet, but, as I'm sure your own men have, we will do our best. Our only concern is preventing…"

"Yes, yes," Hasekura waved one large hand. "Don't let me disturb your meal. Take time; _go-yukkuri_. I just wanted to ah, check on you. You will have a pleasant stay here in Tokyo. You must come, tonight; we have good food, and very pretty girls." The thought compelled him to peer near-sightedly around, and he added: "These women are…secretaries?"

Painstakingly, Hotch introduced each member of the team, concluding with Special Agent Emily Prentiss.

"Oh, yes, of course," Hasekura said a little vaguely. "Very good to meet you ladies. You must come as well."

"As a matter of fact," said Hotch, with a glance at Sasaki for support, "while I am honored by your hospitality, I feel that some of my team should begin work right away. I personally accept your generous invitation-along with Agent Prentiss."

Prentiss shot him a look. "After being so kindly volunteered by Agent Hotchner," she said, "I must accept."

Hasekura clapped his hands several times. "Excellent! I hope the rest of you don't push yourselves too hard. Agent Hotchner, Sasaki-kun here will fill you in on the details. So sorry the rest of you can't make it. We will have to enjoy ourselves ah, some other time."

And, distributing little waves, bows and smiles, he went back through the door. Sasaki gave one more helpless bow before shutting it behind them.

As their figures receded down the corridor, they could hear him speaking rapidly in Japanese.

Morgan caught Reid's eye. He whispered: "You get any of that?"

Reid strained. "He seems to think a lot of you, Hotch," he said after a moment. "But Rossi? Apparently you eat like a wild boar? And Prentiss…"

"I'd just as soon _not_ know, thanks all the same," she said, then mock-glared at Hotch. "Nice going, by the way."

Hotch took a sip of his tea. "I thought you might appreciate it."

* * *

_Akihabara, Akihabara desu. Keihin-Tohoku-sen, Chuo-sen ni onorikaeru. Ohashimoto, gochuuin kudasai. _

The JR aboveground station, a relic of the postwar years roofed with rust-darkened corrugated steel, stood quaint in the heart of the district. On either side waterfalls of neon poured down, pink, yellow, blue; smiling faces on billboards peered through the windows of the train, eager to greet new arrivals. Fresh-faced girls in school uniforms against a backdrop of cherry trees; a rugged space marine in his armor. A rank of men in suits waited to board.

Except for a baby screaming at the sight of Rossi's bearded face (the mother hurried it to the other end of the car) the journey had been uneventful. They squeezed out onto the platform into damp, cool air. It was already getting dark. So far, Tokyo seemed like a city where the sun never rose, and the only light came from blinking advertisements.

In a few moments the platform was relatively empty. Those disembarking vanished down stairs and escalators; the train doors slid shut and it trundled off again, the muffled, sweet feminine voice inside announcing the next station, Kanda. Sasaki and the team were alone, gazing out over Akihabara. The platform stood at least four stories above the street, while overhead, the buildings stretched up to devour the skyline.

Rossi whistled.

"Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland?" he asked softly.

"I'm sorry?" said Reid.

"Title of a Hendrix album. Before your time."

A poster two stories long hung off the building across from them. It showed a girl leaning over a water fountain, well positioned to show her delicately rounded posterior in a flannel skirt, and the water splashed her soft cheeks and ran down the open neck of her crisp white blouse, and sparkled in star-like drops in the imaginary air. She was the size of a massive Buddhist statue from medieval times.

"And close your mouth," said Rossi to Reid.

"I-I was overwhelmed by the spectacle!-Besides, look at Garcia!"

Garcia had turned to the right where a rectangular billboard featured what appeared to be three shirtless werewolves, tangled together and eating grapes out of a golden chalice. She whirled around.

"Sorry, sir? Sorry. I was distracted."

Sasaki was speaking Japanese into his cellphone. Presently, he looked up and waved at two men in dark suits walking across the platform.

"Detectives Kimura and Hata," he explained, "officially this is their case. Kimura's the short one, Hata's the tall one. I'm afraid neither speaks much English."

Stocky, crew-cut Kimura looked friendly enough; Hata, bald, with a long dour face, was more stand-offish. Kimura shook Rossi's hand; Hata made a slight bow. Neither said anything.

Morgan had taken several steps, looking around. "No cameras."

Sasaki shook his head. "Few stations have them. And we've combed the eyewitness reports, but no one admits to having seen anything suspicious. It was a big crowd. Everyone had their mind on their own business."

Kimura caught his attention, and spoke to him quietly. He raised his eyebrows.

"Doctor Reid? It appears your hunch was correct. The establishments at which Mei Oda and Ayumi Tosaka worked were dedicated cosplay cafes. Maya Asano's was…normal, but it did host monthly cosplay nights. I'm sorry. We should have attached more importance to that information."

"Well, see…here's where it gets tricky. If there is a connection through cosplay, it might be a question of one specific character common to all three victims. And that could be very hard to determine without knowing the meaning of the unsub's ritual."

"We should talk to their bosses and co-workers," said Morgan.

Rossi nodded. "That's a given. But say I profile this like I've been tempted to…" He began to pace, eyes probing the ground ahead of him, thinking as he spoke: "The unsub is a shy, antisocial young male. No success with women. He may be impotent. He attends these…cosplay cafes to act out some kind of romantic fantasy. But either it isn't enough, or he tries to make the fantasy real…suffers rejection…but the trouble is…"

"If we give that profile to the cafe proprietors, it could describe half their clientele," Morgan finished.

"Correct. There's a difference between the ordinary customer and somebody who would take it this far."

"Or it could be something totally different," said Garcia, then covered her mouth. "Sorry."

"No, no," said Rossi. "You're right. This is a working hypothesis, that's all. We need to get into these places and figure out what's going on. Maybe we're lucky, and a regular customer has been behaving strangely, or even disappeared. It could be our best shot. But to me, all this behavior looks abnormal.-Captain Sasaki, what do your detectives think?"

Sasaki consulted with Kimura and Hata. After a minute, he turned back: "Kimura agrees we're dealing with a serial killer. However, he's confident that if we police the area, he can be apprehended. He's curious to see your methods but he doesn't think they're strictly necessary."

"That's fair enough."

"If the killer-I'm sorry, the unsub? sticks to pattern, we have two or three days before the next attack. There will be heavy police presence during the evening. If we can't catch them, we should deter them."

"Why not just shut down the station?" asked Morgan.

Sasaki shook his head: "Sadly not possible. This is a major point of transit. Agent Morgan…this city is like a big, well-oiled machine. Typically, it works well. But if a single part is thrown out, the results could be…well. Catastrophic."

"This platform isn't very large," Rossi agreed. "Police should be able to pick up on anything suspicious. Unfortunately…"

"If his or her hunting ground is disturbed," Reid picked up, "they could lose control, and escalate. So far the unsub shows caution, even an aversion to violence. That could change."

Morgan had another suggestion: "We could at least give the media the victimology, or put up posters in the area. Warning young cosplay waitresses to stay off the train."

At that, Sasaki thought for a long moment, hands in his pockets. He sneezed again, blew his nose. Then he looked up and said: "I wish I could do what you suggest. I would do anything to protect these women. But you see…it's difficult to explain…right now, there is a low-level consciousness a serial killer _could_ be at work. People are nervous. But if it was publicly linked to _otaku_, we could have a moral panic on our hands."

"Tsutomu Miyazaki," said Reid, "dubbed the Otaku Killer because of a few videotapes in his closet. It opened decades of prejudice, only partially stemmed when the Minister of Finance himself gave a speech in defense of _otaku_ culture."

"I'd prefer not to make that announcement until we're sure of it. The basic victimology should be obvious enough from the media coverage, and I trust women will use their discretion. Besides, many of those at risk probably knew the victims."

"Understood," said Rossi. "Well, let's get moving. Sasaki, you said you'd gathered some related persons at the local police station?-Morgan, I'd like you to do the interviews."

"Are you sure about that?"

It wasn't the first time Rossi had asked him to step into a situation where, to be honest, his race might put him at a disadvantage. Sasaki had delicately warned him, and he'd gathered his share of odd looks on the train.

"I know what you're thinking, but this has nothing to do with that. You do the best interview of anyone here-no offense Reid, Garcia. If people are scared of you, they'll get over it pretty quickly."

"Alright."

"Reid, why don't you and I go with Captain Sasaki to meet this local guide he mentioned. Of all of us, you've got the best chance of understanding this place."

"Ah, that reminds me," said Sasaki, "you are in luck! We've found a little sister cafe that once employed Mei Oda, and one of the workers speaks English. Perhaps you could question her while Doctor Reid and I investigate other establishments."

"Swell," muttered Rossi, avoiding Reid's eyes.

"And me, sir?" said Garcia, a faint hope in her voice.

He smiled. "Take the evening off, kid. Be on call in case we need to run a quick background check. You can do it from that gizmo in your purse, am I correct?"

"You mean my tablet?-Oh, oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You shall have your reward in heaven, although don't _ever_ call me kid again, that's a Morgan privilege, _thank_ you! Ta-taa!"

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, sweetness!" Morgan called as she made for the escalator.

Detectives Hata and Kimura were peering after her in befuddlement.

Rossi meanwhile was scanning the faces as the platform began to fill again. A young kid with a pierced ear, wearing a red baseball cap. Plenty of businessmen and women. A white tourist with a camera around his neck. The unsub could be there at that moment, discreetly observing them. But if so, nothing made him or her stand out from the crowd.

* * *

Reid, as he moved down the street between Sasaki and Kimura, was besieged by maids. They pressed coupons and packets of tissues into his hands that he was too flustered to refuse.

Kimura laughed and said something to Sasaki.

"He says you are very popular, Doctor Reid."

"So much for keeping a low profile."

"You should stick out. You have to get to know these people, and curiosity is one way of doing that, don't you think?-Ah, there on our left is the Radio Kaikan. It's been there since World War II. It used to be a center for the black market in electrical goods."

Under another great neon sign, peddlers flogged their wares of mouse-pads, electrical cords, memory cards and laptop cases. A few patrons vanished up a narrow escalator. No sooner had Reid craned his head than Sasaki was pulling him the other way.

"And there is the famous five-story Gamers, an _otaku_ hangout. Tell me Doctor Reid, are you a, what do I mean…an aficionado?"

"You could say that," he admitted.

Gamers' mascot, a large-headed girl in a maid costume festooned with yellow cat ears, was not unfamiliar.

Sasaki chuckled. "I can't say so for myself, but I have sympathy with those who are. It is all rather…spectacular. Ah, we've arrived!"

He led Reid by the arm to a narrow building around the corner from Gamers, looking dingy and out-of-place. It was only illuminated by the neighboring buildings, and the signs looked vintage nineteen fifties. They went down a hallway lit by a single bulb. Reid peered around with interest; but Kimura looked uncomfortable, and when they reached a small lift able to accommodate two, he signaled to Sasaki that he would wait downstairs.

When the doors closed Sasaki said: "The shops in here are very, what's the word. Core? Hardcore. Now let me tell you about the man we're going to meet. He calls himself Johnny B. He's a military _otaku_."

"Military? As in militant?"

"Ah, I see you are not as knowledgeable as all that. Model guns, mock battles; that sort of thing. But he's been around a long time and he knows everybody; he knows about _anime_ and all that. He's helped us out in investigations before."

The lift creaked to a stop on the fourth floor, and Reid followed Sasaki cautiously out.

It looked like an army-navy surplus store. The walls were hung with combat boots, camouflaged satchels and water skins, and in several glass cases stood model-at least presumably model-knives, and pistols on glass racks. The air smelled like cigarette smoke.

Through a grime-stained window, the streets of Akihabara looked quite different. It was as if the time machine of an elevator had transported them back fifty years.

Three men sat on folding chairs around a card table. Two were drinking beers and the third calmly smoked a cigarette in a long holder. They all wore green-gray fatigues, and while the smoker was slender and young-looking, the other two were large middle-aged men. One, bald, had a striking pockmarked face. He grinned when he saw them.

"Evening, Johnny," said Sasaki. "Cap'n! What can I do for you?"

"You can tell your friend to stop violating the fire code, to begin with."

Reid could understand most of what was being said; although Johnny B spoke in a guttural, old-fashioned accent.

Johnny laughed, and the young man made no gesture toward putting out his cigarette. They all gazed at Reid with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

"What's this, auditioning for an American sailor in our Pacific Battle league? He's not going to put the fear of god in anyone, I tell ya."

"This is the first time a white boy set foot in this shop in twenty years," said his stocky friend, "and that one got lost. Hey, little boy, are you lost?"

"Quite teasing him, he's with the Captain."

"Allow me to introduce Doctor Spencer Reid. He's with the American FBI, and he's assisting us in an investigation. You probably know which one."

Johnny leaned forward, squinting. "You putting us on?"

"That kid's barely old enough to shave, let alone be a cop," said the young man in a nasal voice.

"Aw, you should talk.-I believe you. Okay, Doctor Reid, pull up a chair. Can he understand?" said Johnny, pointing quite rudely directly at Reid.

"Enough," said Reid in Japanese, and Johnny nodded approvingly. The young man, betraying no ill will, got up and unfolded another chair, which Reid took. Sasaki remained standing. Johnny offered Reid a beer; he politely refused.

"Well," said Johnny, after a long pull on his own, "since you're not much to look at, you must be really smart. I hope you've got the brains to catch this asshole, cause he's not doing us any favors. Pretty soon folks will be too scared to come out here. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to scare off the tourists; but if I had a daughter, I wouldn't let her within ten blocks of here. So. What do you want to know?"

Reid looked to Sasaki. The Captain took the initiative.

"Certain information in the case was not made public. Specifically, notes left on the bodies. Each one read the same: _Dear Yu, perhaps we really did kill ourselves that day six years ago_."

Johnny scratched his head. "Well, shit," he said. "You should have come to us first thing."

The others had adopted attitudes of deep thought.

"_That day six years ago_…" whispered the young man, and took a pensive drag. "I know I heard that somewhere."

"The truth is," said Reid, "I could swear I've it somewhere, too."

"A video game," said the middle-aged friend.

"You sure?"

"I get the feeling. Not one I played, but one I heard about."

Trying to recall, Reid let his eyes wander around the shop. They settled on a bright patch in the drab fatigue pattern of the merchandise. It was a small manga-style painting, like a Russian ikon, of a sweet-looking girl in a yellow dress. Pointing, he said:

"Celeste from _Legend of Summer Days_?"

"Huh!" Johnny's eyes widened, and he burped. "Good eye. I guess you know about this stuff. That's right. She's my personal good luck charm." He took another sip of beer. "I been with real women. Plenty of them. But they let you down. They can hurt you, bad. Cele-chan would never do that to me…"

The other two nodded, seriously. Then the young man slapped the table.

"_Night Train_."

Johnny put a hand to his forehead. "Goddamn Night Train!"

Reid wanted to shout it at the same instant. It came rushing back to him. When Sasaki looked at him quizzically, he got to his feet before explaining: "It's virtually unheard of in the states, but it has a cult following here. It was one of the earliest dating simulators on the Playstation One."

He had begun to pace in a circle, his face going pale, horrified at his own faulty memory. When had he ever been at a loss for information?

"_A fated meeting on the coldest night of the yea_r," he whispered.

"Yes! Yes!" said the young man. "I must have played it fifty times!"

"But that's it," and Reid almost grabbed Sasaki by the lapels of his coat, "you're not _supposed_ to see that message! That's why I couldn't remember. It's one of the Bad Endings. If you make enough mistakes, the heroine leaves you that note…before committing suicide."

Sasaki looked him in the eyes.

"What's the name of this heroine?"

Reid shook his head.

"Rei Nakamura," said the young man.

Sasaki took out his cellphone.


	4. Imouto

_It may seem like too many questions are answered in this chapter, but remember, there's always room for a good twist or two on...CRIMINAL MINDS_

* * *

For the first time in days-weeks?-he couldn't remember-he slept. It gripped him like a gentle vise; it was like the sleep of childhood. If he had any dreams, he couldn't remember a single one. He woke up to soft fluorescent light, and a breeze, tinged pleasantly with the smell of rain, wafting through transparent white curtains. It was nighttime.

For a moment, he smiled. Then familiar panic set in. This was his own bed, but how had he gotten there? He remembered trying to lie down in an alley, the stink of garbage; police had kicked him awake. They'd thought he was drunk. He tried to explain he was allergic to alcohol, but they'd laughed. He hadn't known where he was. It had been night; it seemed like it had always been night. Instead of the filthy suit that had clung to him like a second skin, he was naked except for a pair of underpants. He felt his cheeks; he hadn't shaved. But his skin was clean and smelled as fresh as the breeze, as the sheets underneath him. The smell of frying bacon reached him from the kitchen. Had he put it on?

He recognized his suit, still rumpled and dirt-stained, hung over a chair by the bed. He reached over and searched his pockets. His wallet, keys. The reassuring shape of the orange plastic pill bottle. But when he held it up to the light, it was empty.

Soft footsteps. He froze, fingers still wrapped around the bottle.

"Good morning." A girl stood in the doorway. Wearing a school uniform, her hands folded demurely in front of her. A warm, round face, lit by the streetlamp outside the window. A tiny red bow was fixed in her hair.

"Yuusuke-kun," she added, and smiled to form two enormous dimples.

"W-who are you?" His throat was dry; his voice came out in a wheeze.

"What a silly question! Would you like eggs over easy, or sunny-side-up?"

"Please…my pills. What…what happened to them?"

She padded closer to the bed. She was wearing only socks, he noticed.

"You don't need them," she said, with gentle conviction. "You don't need them anymore. Because I'm here. I'll take care of you."

"I need them…" He swallowed. It hurt.

"What for?"

"To keep me…from seeing things. Things that…aren't really there."

Slowly, she stretched out one hand. It was perfectly white, the nails trimmed to smooth crescents. She brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

"Like me?" she whispered. "But I am real. Can't you feel it?"

He felt like sobbing with relief. He seized the hand, pressed it to his cheek.

"That's right," she went on, caressing him, "I'm here now, and I won't go away. Not in a month. Not in a year. Ever."

"But I feel like…I might have done something really bad…"

"Shh. You haven't done anything, Yuusuke-kun. If you had, I would have known about it, wouldn't I? Now sit back. How would you like your eggs?"

* * *

When he and Rossi reached the address of the little sister cafe, Hata leaned against a utility pole, showing no inclination to go inside. When Rossi hesitated, he pointed laconically at the third floor. A sign in the window read: _Namimi_. It was accompanied by a small grinning cartoon face.

"Thanks," said Rossi. "You want a coffee or something while you wait? My treat."

Hata shrugged.

If there was one thing you could say for Akihabara, you were never more than ten feet from a vending machine. Rossi went over to the nearest one, stuck in a hundred yen coin and selected a Boss coffee, black. Hata grunted when he handed it to him, then gave him a thumbs-up. He took out a pack of Mild Seven cigarettes and offered one, but was declined.

On the stairs, Rossi hesitated again. With Garcia's assurance that it wasn't a sex thing, except when it was, he had no idea what to except. Then he chuckled to himself. Here he was acting like a teenager, when twenty years ago he would have been roaring up those stairs with a gallon of beer inside him, probably hoping it _was_ a sex thing.

When he went through the door, he worried for a moment he'd broken into someone's apartment. Cafe Namimi resembled a living room with a widescreen TV, toys and board games scattered across the carpet, and what appeared to be an inflatable donkey in the fashion of a miniature rocking horse. But there was a menu posted on the wall, and several tables that must have been small even by Japanese standards. Rossi was the only customer.

A young woman rushed out from the back. She wore a sailor uniform, had short, sensibly-cut hair, and was probably in her twenties, though she could have passed for fifteen. The sight of Rossi didn't faze her in the least, and she spoke in fluent English: "You're home! I've been waiting and waiting! You could have at least called, so don't blame me if the tea is cold."

Then just as abruptly, she vanished.

Scratching his head, Rossi tried to jam himself into one of the chairs. He finally gave up, and sat cross-legged on the floor with one arm on the table.

A moment later, the girl returned with a cup of steaming tea. Rossi accepted it, at a loss for words.

She sat down across from him, stared intently into his face, then reached out and straightened his tie.

"Rossi _onii_-_chan_?"

"I'm…Agent Rossi, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I take it Sasaki told you about me, Miss…?"

"Why should Mr. Sasaki have to tell me anything?" She sounded annoyed. "I'm Annie, your kid sister."

"…Annie? You'll have to excuse me, that doesn't sound like a very Japanese…"

"Don't be silly. How could a big, American man like you have a Japanese sister? Now drink your tea. Hot tea is good for you."

Somewhat cowed, Rossi obeyed. She continued to study his face.

"You're always so tired when you come home. Work, work, work, work," she took a breath, "work, work, _work_, that's all you ever do. You should it easy sometimes."

Rossi had begun to recover his footing. "I'd like that," he said. "But I'm on a very important job today. What can you tell me about Mei Oda?"

Annie blinked, and for a moment she paused. Rossi got the feeling Sasaki hadn't made it clear this was a business call. Sadness tinged her veneer of professional cheerfulness. Looking away, she muttered: "So you are here about that."

"That's right. Anything at all you can tell me would be helpful."

"Mei-_imouto_ worked here a long time ago," she said. "Two years. It can't have anything to do with…what's happening now."

"That may be true," said Rossi, mindful to take a sip of his tea. "But it's often the details people _don't_ notice that are really important. What was Mei like?"

"She was…nice. Everybody liked her. She didn't do this job for the money, she did it because she liked meeting people."

"Was there anyone she met very often? A regular customer?"

_A patron_, he wanted to say; all this reminded him of what he'd read about the old system of geisha.

"All Mei's _onii-chan_s were regulars."

Annie screwed up her face. Something was just eluding her memory.

"Why did she leave Namimi?" Rossi asked. "Why did she decide to go into…cosplay?"

"She said she got tired of playing just one character. One of her _onii-chan_s," she blinked; it had come back to her, "he knew somebody. He said he could get her a job at the biggest cosplay cafe, if she wanted. So, she did."

"What was this ah, _onii-chan_'s name?"

She shook her head, a bit of her put-on coyness returning. "Most of our _onii-chan_s don't use their real names. He said he was Yuusuke, but I think he was probably lying."

"Yuusuke. Did she ever call him _Yu_?"

"I can't remember."

"What was he like? Did you ever speak to him?"

"He was very nice too. Young…less than thirty. He always had something interesting to talk about. And he understood…the way things work here. He was very happy." Then with a hint of fear she added: "He can't have anything to do with this. I couldn't believe that. He'd never hurt Mei-chan."

Rossi held out both hands. "I'm not saying that. Still, he might know something. Is there any way of getting in touch with him?"

"No. He never paid with a credit card or anything, lots of people don't. You should go talk to the people at the cosplay cafe."

"Thanks. I intend to."

"But finish your tea first." Annie let out a long breath. She pouted, back in character, and suddenly hit Rossi on the arm.

"Hey! What was that for!"

"For tiring me out, and making me think about sad stuff! You're so mean to me, Rossi _onii-chan_, and all I do is worry about you."

"I'm sorry," he said, and was surprised by his own sincerity.

"You want to play a game with me? We have checkers, battleship, Japanese chess…"

"Maybe some other time."

"_Mo-ou_, you always say that. Anyway, I shouldn't keep you from your big, important job. You'll be careful, won't you?"

"I'll…do my best."

"Just because you're a big, American man doesn't mean the scary man won't hurt you too. Pinky swear."

"Now, Miss Annie, I'm sure…"

"_Pinky swear_!" She forcibly linked her little finger through Rossi's, shook it hard and pronounced: "_Yubi ki-ri, yubi ki-ta_! There, now if you break your promise you'll have to swallow a thousand needles."

Rossi's cellphone buzzed. Reid. He felt blood rising to his cheeks; it was as if Reid had peered through window and seen him.

"I'd better take this outside…"

"Of course! Go, go, go!" Although an inch remained in his teacup, Annie hauled to him feet and pushed him bodily out the door. "Come back and play with me later, now talk to your friend!"

* * *

Outside, Hata had finished his coffee and was smoking another cigarette. He smirked a bit when he saw Rossi emerge. Holding up one finger-_wait a minute_-Rossi ducked into a nearby alley.

"Reid."

"I have the missing piece of the victimology," said Reid, his voice torn between excitement and nervous tension. "All the victims must have cosplayed the heroine from _Night Train_, an old dating simulator…"

"Hang on. Dating simulator?"

Reid was impatient: "It is what it sounds like, Rossi. The player interacts with girls in a…dating fashion. Most games have multiple heroines, but _Night Train_ only had one: Rei Nakamura. The game is set in high school, and its epilogue fast-forwards six years into your marriage. If you made the wrong choices, she can kill herself, and the note she leaves is the one our unsub uses…"

"So what's _that day, six years ago_?"

"At one point the hero and heroine have a conversation about the afterlife. The hero tries to convince her there's life after death. She says, _then why don't we just kill ourselves now_? And he says, _maybe we have already_."

Something made Rossi shudder.

"And the name of the hero?" he asked.

"It's Yuusuke."

He caught his breath. "Excellent work, Agent Reid. Where are you know?"

"I'm with Johnny, the guide Sasaki-"

"I need as comprehensive a list as possible of all young women who regularly cosplay as this…heroine. Can he do that for us?"

"I think so, I'll ask…"

"Terrific. I'll see you later tonight."

No sooner had he hung up then he dialed Garcia. "The goddess speaks from her seat of power, state your petition."

"When you can spare a minute, Agent Garcia, I'd like a list of professional males between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. Our unsub spends enough time in the area that he probably lives or works within a twenty-block radius. And he is employed; he has the money to spend in these places."

"Your wish is my command, but you'll be looking at a very long list…"

"We'll narrow it down as we discover more parameters, but it's a start."

"Rodger-dodger, over and out, it shall not disrupt my shopping for more than a millisecond."

"Thanks, you're an angel."

Rossi hung up. He took a deep breath. Hata, growing curious, had wandered over. He gave another thumbs-up; this time accompanied by a questioning glance. His face flushed, Rossi returned the thumbs-up with confidence.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Hotch was feeling apprehensive. The worst of the evening (going by Sasaki's warning) was over. In fact, Hotch had found the geisha dances intriguing with their subtle movements; and their music had been haunting. Prentiss as well had listened spellbound. But when the geisha returned, bearing clay flasks of _sake_ on wooden trays, he realized the evening's main event: drinking.

Hotch hadn't had more than one social drink in years. Even in the most terrible moments of the past few years, he hadn't retreated into the bottle like some men. He didn't like the way it made him feel; no amount of liquor could erase his responsibilities, and his guilt over them only grew more profound.

Unfortunately, he had the sense that drinking any less than Hasekura and his friends would be an insult.

The friends themselves were a strange group; Hasekura alone represented the police. Hotch had been introduced to the deputy finance minister, a billionaire real estate developer, the owner of a news station, and a popular actress who played some TV detective. If Sasaki had been mistaken about the boredom, he had been dead-on about the publicity stunt; it was a matter of time before the cameras showed up.

A glance at Prentiss confirmed the impression.

The talk was loud, and Hotch covertly texted Rossi under the table:

_Status_?

The reply was prompt: _Progress. Talk tomorrow._

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Prentiss was drinking carefully, but the well-fed deputy finance minister on her right kept insistently filling her cup. Hotch hoped she knew the strength of the sweet-tasting _sake_. Well, she was a seasoned field agent. Now she was trying to hold a serious conversation with Hasekura. Since he acted like she wasn't there, this took some effort.

"Hasekura-san, I know the case doesn't fall under your immediate jurisdiction, but we'd still like to hear your thoughts. You must have a lot of experience…surely you have some ideas."

The flattery succeeded in turning his head for a moment.

"Well," he mumbled. "Well. Of course, something like this was bound to ah, happen eventually. I mean, it has happened before."

"What do you mean?"

"The Miyazaki case. These _otaku_ are all a bunch of sex perverts." Then placing his hand on Hotch's arm in an uncalled-for gesture, he confided: "You must please not think all Japanese people are like that. That's why I invited these guests. Successful…very big in the world. Not like those weirdos. But weirdos are your ah, speciality, so you'll be sure to solve the case!"

He burst out laughing, as did the actress, who had overheard.

The developer took a slug of _sake_ and, wiping his mouth, put in: "That is right. I own the Akiba-Ichi building. Maybe you see it? Is restaurants, is shopping, very good for foreign guests. They don't want to see these _otaku_ and their dirty stores."

"I know plenty of foreigners who like that kind of thing just fine," observed Prentiss.

Hotch tried to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to gape at Hasekura's callous disregard for the lives of the victims. But maybe this was a cultural attitude he didn't understand. After all, since he wasn't in charge of the investigation, there was little he could do to speed it along. T

hat wasn't true, Hotch reflected. Hasekura could have let them do their jobs.

* * *

Morgan slumped against the stone wall. He was exhausted. In spite of his concerns, the interviews at police headquarters had gone smoothly. Except for the presence of a translator, they were the same heartbreaking conversations he'd had with dozens, if not hundreds of grieving loved ones.

The three victims were blameless. There had been no trouble in their lives with money, or religion, or even with men; there was a breakup in Maya Asano's case, but not a painful one, and the boyfriend had an alibi. Her older brother had sat there wordlessly shaking his head, and broken off the interview early.

All that innocence extinguished in an instant of screeching metal.

He was standing in a park of sorts; actually it seemed to be a gravel pit, marked by a few trees, where people could smoke. Businessmen stood in white clouds, casting him the occasional glance, curious or suspicious. Two schoolgirls perched on the wall opposite him, eating pastries. Something about them struck Morgan as odd, and after a moment he concluded, without feeling much surprise, they were young men in drag.

He hadn't yet experienced anything that might be called culture shock. Perhaps, because his experience of Tokyo had taken place so far at night, it felt like a long dream.

His cellphone rang.

"Rossi, talk to to me."

"There have been some developments, but I'm going to call it a night. Captain Sasaki knows a good…ramen place? I suggest we reconnoiter there."

Consulting his watch, Morgan was shocked to find it was half-past one in the morning.

"Ramen? Like the stuff you buy for ninety-nine cents at the student co-op?"

"He claims it's better. Meet us in front of Yodobaishi Camera, I'm told you can't miss it."

Indeed one couldn't. It loomed over Morgan where he stood, behind the train tracks where they had arrived. Another train was just pulling in.

* * *

The door of the restaurant opened with considerable difficulty. Garcia, cradling three small paper bags under one arm, and an enormous vinyl bag under the other, wedged her way in sideways. Her face fell when she caught sight of Rossi.

"Oh, sir."

"What! This is how a civilized Italian man eats pasta," he insisted, twirling the ramen noodles around a fork, his soup spoon poised to catch the dripping broth.

"The unsub will go scott-free if we're laughed out of Tokyo for your atrocious table manners. Look! People are staring!"

They were, although it likely had more to do with the large gathering of foreigners than Rossi's choice of utensils. Each of the diners had a bowl of ramen, oozing steam, and a tall glass of beer; except Reid, who stuck to water.

"Pull up a chair, babygirl," said Morgan, "and maybe another for your luggage."

Reid's eyes narrowed. "Is that the new Kodak laser _printer_?"

"In _this_ bag, and this is for my games, and this is my new camera, and this is all my Rozen Maiden doujinshi from Mandarake; and here in my purse, within the confines of my trusty iPad, is the list you asked for, sir."

"Glad to hear it."

"Well," said Sasaki, looking quietly pleased at the evening's progress, "I suppose we can't discuss the case openly here, but…"

"Hang on." Reid's phone went off. He inched his chair toward the wall, away from the noise. "Uh-huh. What's that? Hotch? Sorry, we're in a restaurant and…oh, okay. We'll be back soon. In under an hour? Understood. Goodnight."

Sasaki looked wry.

"How were the festivities?"

"Actually," said Reid, flipping his phone shut, "I kind of wish I'd attended." Then, glancing around at the others, he leaned forward and mouthed: _Prentiss got drunk_.

* * *

"Who does he think he is? _Who does he think is_? I oughta go back in there…give 'im a kick in 'is greasy balls. _Secretaries_. How the hell does a guy like that get power? I'll give _him_ Japan. I'm more Japanese than he is."

"Agent Prentiss, please keep your voice down."

"Oh yeah? Is that an order? That an order, big shot? You think you're so tough, Hotch. But you are tough. I love you. I lo-ove you! C'mon, lighten up."

Hotch half-dragged her down the hotel corridor, stopping every few yards to wipe his forehead. His own face was more than a little flushed.

"Which room is yours?"

"There's only two rooms, Hotch. One for the sweet, innocent, girls, one for the nasty, dirty boys. How'd you forget something like that? You drunk or something? Huh?"

"Is it on the left or right of ours? I can't remember."

"Left. No, right. No, left. Definitely right."

He tried her key card on the right hand door, successfully. Garcia wasn't back yet. He guided her to what he assumed was her bed and lowered her down.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I agree with you about Hasekura. But he won this round."

"We'll get 'im next time…you n' me, Hotch…"

Hotch went into the bathroom, poured her a glass of water, and set it on the night table.

"I'm leaving this here. You'll need it."

Tangled in the sheets, Prentiss moaned: "Tell me a _story_, Hotch."

"Once upon a time, there was a spoiled little girl who wouldn't go to sleep."

"Oh yeah. Wha' happened to her?"

"The unsub got her. Goodnight."


	5. St Louis Woman

_Previously, on CRIMINAL MINDS..._

Prentiss got drunk.

_...and now, the continuation._

* * *

Prentiss eagerly received the can of coffee with both hands, and pressed it to her forehead before cracking it open. The day was bright and chilly, and her breath misted.

"I tell you, Reid, this is one innovation I'll be sure to introduce to the brass in Maryland. Can you imagine one of these machines in every corridor? Triple productivity."

Wrapped in a trenchcoat, Reid was peering at her with some concern.

"Are you alright? Last night…"

"We're never, ever, ever discussing last night under pain of me shooting you in the kneecaps.-Oh God. Anyway, Hotch said I should get some exercise, and I'm inclined to agree with him."

The team had split into groups of two and, arriving once again in Akihabara, set off to investigate the cosplay cafes. With Hotch and Sasaki at the high-profile cafe that had employed Mei Oda, the others were sent to more obscure venues identified by Johnny B. Reid and Prentiss stood outside Cafe Blue Paradise while Prentiss sipped her coffee.

"What do you make of this place so far?" she asked. "Is it everything you dreamed of?"

"I have to admit," said Reid, "I wasn't prepared for the depth of the fantasy. There are people who spend whole nights here, the way some men visit bars. I'm not sure if that's psychologically healthy, but I can't see it in and of itself producing the kind of behavior our unsub exhibits."

"There must be a stressor. But there's no shortage of stressors around here, with the way people work and live. Maybe one day a guy just…snaps."

"That's not very scientific."

"It's hard to know the proper terminology in a situation like this. It's like we have to invent it as we go along."

"Agreed.-You know, the way things are going, we might to end up having to profile a fictional character."

"This Yuusuke? Well, what do we know about him?"

"In the game, the hero and heroine are connected by a sense of loss. He's lost his father; she's lost both parents and lives in a boarding house. If he can help her come to terms with her loss, it's a happy ending. Otherwise…"

"But he never displays any hostile feelings towards her?"

Reid shook his head. "Not that I can think of. That must be the unsub's pathology. One of these girls had a negative interaction with him…one that led him to invert the fantasy, turning healing into harm."

"You still favor the male customer as unsub."

"You were the first one to mention it, as I recall. Just now you seemed to think so, too."

Prentiss sighed. "I have to admit, it's plausible. I'd just like to believe it isn't true…that feelings of love or respect, or whatever it is, can't turn bad like that…in spite of all evidence, and experience, to the contrary. Anyway," she said, tossing away the can, "let's get to work."

* * *

Two workers at Cafe Blue Paradise, both frequent Rei Nakamura cosplayers, had volunteered to speak with them. Neither spoke English, and they were relying on Reid's untested powers of translation.

Natsumi Kodo had a broad, honest, open face. She wore a white smock over a vaguely maid-like uniform, but there was nothing coquettish or fantastic about her. Her colleague Rin Todokawa, off-duty, looked younger, was slender and nervous, and wore a black turtleneck sweater. Her hair was cut short and slightly tufted. Natsumi much more resembled a poster of Rei Nakamura hanging on the wall, the same kind of plain, sensible girl with a small red ribbon in her hair.

When Reid mentioned the victimology, Rin almost burst out crying.

"So it's true!"

"We can't be sure of that yet," he said clumsily. "Only that it's…held true so far."

Rin clung to Natsumi's arm. "I'm scared."

"Shh." Natsumi gently patted her shoulder. "The police will protect us. See? They've even got the American FBI. That's how much they care. We're going to be okay." "

But…Maya and everyone else, _they're_ not okay! Who did it? Who could do something like that?"

"That's what we need your help figuring out," said Prentiss, and Reid translated. "We think a certain Yuusuke cosplayer might know something about the case. He was friends with Mei Oda. He persuaded her to leave a previous job and go into cosplay. You two might know him as well."

"There are lots of Yuusuke cosplayers," Natsumi said, guardedly.

"This one was very outgoing and charismatic," said Reid. "He was probably more social, less awkward than your other customers. Kind, solicitous, knowledgeable…you had a positive impression of him."

"But how could a person like that…?" said Rin, disbelieving.

"We didn't say he hurt anyone, only that he might know something. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?"

Natsumi looked down. A powerful thought had struck her, but she was obviously reluctant to voice it. Reid waited patiently, gazing at her.

Rin shook her arm. "What is it?"

"There is Akira," she said quietly.

"Akira? Is that his real name?"

"I think so. But he never told us his last name."

"What else can you tell us about him?" Prentiss asked.

"He isn't like the others. It's just like you say, he's…very confident. I think he has a good job…he spends a lot of money."

"And how often does he come here?"

"Usually every few days. But we haven't seen him in two weeks."

Reid and Prentiss shared a glance. _Bingo_.

"You know," said Natsumi, smiling a little, "Akira did something nice for me. I was walking home one night, and a couple of boys got fresh. He chased them off. He even hit one with his briefcase. I was going to treat him to coffee or something…but he got embarrassed and ran away. "

"Not _so_ confident, then," said Prentiss.

"You don't understand. It takes a lot of guts to stand up to anybody around here. He'd probably used up his supply of courage for that day."

"That was just before he disappeared," murmured Rin.

"When I didn't see him, I was kind of worried the punks got back at him…but he'll turn up. He's been gone for a week or two before, on business." Then, still smiling, Natsumi shook her head gently and said: "Akira-san has nothing to do with this. If he knew anything, he would have told the police. That's the kind of guy he is."

"Maybe so," said Reid, "but we'd still like to talk to him." He slid a business card across the table. "If he shows up, please call this number."

"You promise he won't get into any trouble?"

"I…" Reid looked at Prentiss. "I'm afraid I can't make that promise. But if he hasn't done anything, he has nothing to worry about."

"You believe in him, don't you?" asked Prentiss, and when Reid had translated, Natsumi nodded firmly.

Before they left, Prentiss had a final question: "There's something I'd like to understand. Maybe you two can help me."

"Yes?" After the solemn questions, Rin looked eager to help.

"I keep hearing that what goes on in…places like this, isn't sexual. At least not always. But if not, what is it? What is it people, I mean men in particular, find attractive about…all this?"

The girls looked at each other.

"_Moe_," said Natsumi.

"_Moe_," said Rin.

"Moeh?"

Rin blushed slightly. "It's…hard to explain."

"_Moe_ literally means blooming flower," said Reid. "It's written with the character of _moon_ under _grass_."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"It's probably best defined as a middle ground _between_ cuteness and sexuality. Prentiss, do you know the Beatles song, _Lovely Rita, Meter Maid_?"

She nodded. "_In a cap, she looked much older, and the bag across her shoulder, made her look a little like a military man._ So…?"

"Exactly. What's so attractive about a girl who looks like a military man?"

"I guess I never thought about it like that."

"That's _moe_."

"I…see.-Well, you two girls be safe. If you keep away from the night trains, you shouldn't be in any danger."

Prentiss didn't mention, of course, what she and Reid both knew; that if the unsub were thwarted, he or she could escalate, grow unpredictable. Tonight was the first night of Sasaki's platform watch.

* * *

Morgan and Rossi, after interviewing an English-speaking cosplayer, sat in the park where Morgan had stood the night before. They ate their lunch of convenience store rice balls, washed down with more canned coffee.

"It's the same guy," said Rossi, "I'm sure of it. And he disappears just after the first attack. I'll bet my pension the other girls are telling the same story. But it doesn't fit the profile. He should be _more_ introverted, _more_ antisocial than the usual specimen; not less. They make him sound like an all-around great guy."

Morgan took a bite, swallowed. "He could be a textbook sociopath. Superficially charming, but lacking empathy."

"Then why the psychological need to visit these places? And why start killing now?"

"I think right now, all we can do is bring him in. If he's stopped visiting the cafes, it's a good bet he's missing work. He could be wandering around the neighborhood. Someone's bound to notice him sooner or later, especially with everyone on edge."

"We don't have much time." Rossi took out his phone. "Garcia?…That's great, I'm glad you're at the zoo. No, I've never seen a red panda, I'm sure they're adorable. I need you to narrow down that list to men with high-paying jobs, either high-tech or else management level. Look for recent absences from work, and of course any psychological issues. Call Morgan. Yes, I know it's your pleasure. Take care."

When he had hung up, Morgan asked: "Call me?"

"I should be getting back to the hotel. Strauss wants a status report, and someone should be on call in case this Hasekura wants to throw another party or treat us to lunch. Hotch took the bullet last time, and from what I hear, we oughta be grateful."

"I got it. I'll hang around here and try to coordinate everyone."

"That's just what I was about to ask. Here, finish my coffee, I've had eight cans of this stuff; I'm switching to tea."

Rossi walked off, picking his way between the smokers, looking harried and out-of-place.

* * *

Perhaps ten minutes had passed. Morgan remained in the park, people-watching, and checking periodically for calls from the other team members.

He saw a man, well-built, wearing sunglasses, emerge from a nearby convenience store. He was sure he'd seen the man pass by twice already. Well, maybe he still had trouble telling businessmen apart in their identical dark suits. But while the sunglasses weren't unusual on such a bright day, few other people were wearing them. With little surprise, but some apprehension, he saw the man turn suddenly and approach him.

"No thanks," he said, looking straight ahead. "Not interested."

He assumed the man was a pimp. But instead of asking Morgan if he'd like to meet his sister, he silently held out a folded piece of paper, just below waist level, avoiding eye contact. Finally, after a quick glance around, Morgan palmed it.

_12-5 san-chome_, it read, in English._ Please come alone. _

The address was only a block away.

"You serious? You're really serious."

The man was stone-faced.

Morgan smiled ruefully at him, shaking his head. "Thanks, man. You had to complicate my day with this straight-up James Bond number."

Uncomprehending, the man walked off.

* * *

The address, on a side street of little shops, looked like an ordinary bar. A sign read _Pub Tsukimi_, and under a half-lowered venetian blind, a cosy wood-paneled room was visible. Morgan handled his cellphone, debating whether to call Hotch. In the end he returned it to his pocket, then stepped inside.

A bell tinkled. The room was cool and dark, and a man sat alone at the end of the bar. Then Morgan realized another man was standing to his left, leaning against the wall by the door, inspecting his fingernails. He resembled the man who'd passed him the note. There was the nick of a tiny scar on his lower lip.

Morgan nodded, but got no response. Shrugging, he went up to the bar and took a seat, one chair away from the other customer. The man was playing with a mother-of-pearl cigarette lighter, and didn't acknowledge him either.

A bartender with a politely vague expression drifted out.

"Sir."

"Double scotch on the rocks?"

"Yes, sir."

When the bartender had turned to the bottles, the man with the cigarette lighter coughed. Morgan turned to him. He looked wiry and tough, and had short, kinky hair like an afro. It was hard to guess his age. After a moment, he took out a long, unfiltered, dark-brown cigarette and lit it. A pleasant aroma filled the room.

"Double scotch on the rocks, sir. Eight hundred yen."

"Thanks."

Morgan put down a thousand-yen bill, which the man wordlessly took. No change was returned.

The man with the cigarette lighter nodded. "Scotch," he said. "Very good."

While his voice was almost unbelievably rough, he spoke good English.

"Thanks."

The man stuck out his hand. "Hello, nigger."

Morgan flinched. In his life, he'd encountered racism many times. The smaller displays-a hesitant greeting, the pause before an aborted slur-irritated him most. In this case, he was left speechless, and gave a firm handshake.

"Don't misunderstand," said the man, and coughed again. "See, I'm a nigger too."

"Is that so?"

"All us colored people are the same. We're all the same to the white man."

Unsure how to respond, Morgan drank. The man took a drag before going on: "My English is nice, isn't it?"

"It certainly is."

Morgan cast a glance back at the man by the door. He hadn't moved.

"Do you know what I am?" asked the cigarette-smoking man.

_A well-intentioned racist_, thought Morgan, but shook his head.

The curly-haired man leaned in. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and surrounded by a fine mass of wrinkles, the marks of premature age. "I am _yakuza_," he said. He grinned, displaying large, nicotine-stained teeth. "Japanese mafia. Are you scared?"

Morgan sipped his whisky. "Should I be?"

The man burst of laughing. "Of course not! Don't be stupid. The police know me; everybody knows me. This is my territory. I haven't brought you here to kill you. I want to help you."

The man wasn't missing any fingers, and had no obvious tattoos; but Morgan remembered the afro-like haircut, or punch perm, was associated with old-fashioned _yakuza_. From the rest of his appearance, he had no trouble believing it.

"And just how can you be of help to me, Mr…?"

"Toyoda," he waved his hand absently. "Call me Boss Toyoda. That's not important. What's important is, I'm going to help you catch this fucking maniac."

"I'd appreciate anything you can tell me."

As if not listening, staring across the bar, Boss Toyoda went on: "A real man doesn't hurt women, not unless they get mouthy. Only one of those _otaku_ would do something like this. Don't get me wrong. I like them…mostly I like them. They are like little children. But you can't trust the way they think."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Hah. If you don't spend any time in the real world, you're bound to go crazy sooner or later. That's common sense. But the police won't do anything; not those lazy fucks. You are different. My boys have been watching you since you got here."

Morgan frowned; it was probably true. He had gotten so many stares from passers-by, he wouldn't have noticed a tail.

"I'm flattered," he said.

Suddenly, Boss Toyoda's eyes gleamed as he asked: "Do you listen to the blues?"

"Occasionally," Morgan admitted.

The Boss growled in Japanese toward the back; Morgan made out the word _record_. Putting his hand on Morgan's shoulder, he said confidentially: "Bessie Smith. The best blues there is. The _St. Louis Blues_. Very uncommon recording. There are maybe ten in the world. She gives it the most soul this time. You listen, it makes you want to cry."

There was a scratch even as he spoke, and the bar was filled with a deep, powerful voice, that seemed to rise up like water from the floor. "_I hate to see…that evening sun go down…It makes me feel…I'm on my last go-round._"

Taking another sip, Morgan couldn't resist slightly tapping one foot against the bar.

"But a man doesn't cry," muttered the Boss; then, shaking his head, returned to himself. "Listen. These weeks, my boys seen a guy walking around at night. He tried to sleep in an alley. The police beat him up. But he's wearing a nice suit. I don't think he is homeless."

"Go to the police with this information," Morgan said, sternly. "I shouldn't be taking your statement."

"I'm not telling _them_ anything. They can suck their own cocks all day long like they always do. I want to help _you_…I want you to get all the credit."

"As a fellow…?"

"As a fellow nigger," said the Boss, and grinned again. Morgan shivered.

Meanwhile Bessie Smith sang: "_Feeling tomorrow, like I feel today…I'll pack my bag, make my getaway._"

The Boss listened with his head on one side, waving the cigarette like a metronome.

"So," said Morgan. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'll have my guys pick this fucker up. Don't worry," he added, seeing Morgan draw back, "they won't rough him up. Then I'll turn him over to you. But only to you."

"I'm sorry. I can't agree to that."

"After that, give him to the police, I don't care. But I want you to make the arrest."

"And there's nothing else in it for you? You're doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"My job is to help people! Not hurt them. I keep them safe from crooks, like the Koreans and Chinamen."

Morgan wondered how he reconciled his fellow-feeling with African-Americans with this blatant sentiment, but kept silent.

"I'm sorry," he said, without hesitating, "but your organization must have rules, and so does mine. I can't sanction this. It's illegal. I'll have to tell my superior officer about this conversation, and I'll pass on the information about the vagrant. We'll look for him ourselves. Whether you want any credit is up to you."

To his surprise, Boss Toyoda nodded slightly. "I thought you might say that. I can see you're not a crooked man. Do what you want," and his last words were drowned out by a swell of music:

"_St. Louis woman! With her diamond rings! Pulls my man around! By her apron strings!_"

"But," the Boss finished, looking Morgan pointedly in the eyes, "I will do what I want as well. You might be hearing from me again."

Over the rim of his scotch glass, Morgan nodded.

Bessie Smith concluded: "_My man got a heart like a rock cast in the sea…else how could he go so far from me?_"

* * *

Night fell. It was raining again.

In the back room of Cafe Blue Paradise, Rin Todokawa collapsed with a sigh on a folding chair. Her six-hour shift was finally over.

She had been shaking all day, spilling tea even when she wasn't called on to play a clumsy character. She kept seeing the faces of Mei Oda, Maya Asano and Ayumi Tosaka, as they'd appeared on the news; normal photographs, but horrible in context. Faces that didn't exist anymore. Natsumi's words of assurance rang hollow.

_If you keep away from the night trains, you shouldn't be in any danger._

The pretty American lady had said that. But of course _she_ wasn't afraid; she carried a gun and probably knew karate. If not the train, Rin would have to take the bus, then walk. She might end up being killed by some mugger.

Why did it have to happen _here_? she thought. Here, where everything was so nice.

She took off her smock and, after a moment, buried her face in it. The rain whispered soft on the windowpane. The room was dark except for the orange neon light pouring through the window.

The door to the changing room opened. Rin looked up.

"Hello?"

There was nobody there.

Feeling childish anger that swallowed up her fear, she yelled: "Hey, _don't_ try to scare me! That is _so_ mean!"

"Sorry," came a low voice.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever it was sounded normal.

A figure dressed in a yellow raincoat came in, but stopped just outside the light from the window. Rin narrowed her eyes.

"Natsumi? Is that you?"

No answer.

"I t-told you, stop doing that! It really, really, _really_ isn't-"

The figure's left arm came up. The gloved hand held a pistol.

"_Put_ that away I know it's just a replica, I'm serious! Please, I'm really scared, okay, you scared me, now just…"

The gun went off with the sound of a popping champagne cork. Rin gasped and pitched forward, tears of pain blooming in her eyes, but the figure swooped forward and caught her before she fell off the chair. It held her shoulder with one firm glove.

"I'm sorry," came the same soft, indistinct voice. "I can't let an impostor like you exist any longer."

Rin opened her mouth, but it was covered in an instant by a sheet of transparent tape. Her eyes bulged, her lips formed the words: _Please. Please. Please._

The figure holstered the gun and, gripping her with both hands, yanked her away as quick and sure as any jungle predator.


	6. Escalate

_Okay, I'm out of ways to use the phrase...CRIMINAL MINDS for now. Enjoy, and leave a review if so inclined!_

* * *

It was three in the morning.

Hotch lay awake in bed, rigid, his hands folded on his chest. In the bed to his left, Reid was turning fitfully; from time to time he murmured something. Across from them, Rossi omitted the occasional phlegmy snore. Morgan was absent; Garcia was pulling an all-nighter, refining the data she'd gathered, and he had volunteered to stay up in solidarity.

The phone rang. Hotch's arm reached out immediately.

"This is Agent Hotchner."

"Hotchner, this is Sakaki," came a breathless, pained voice. "I am at Cafe Blue Paradise. The neighbors heard a struggle…we have another body."

* * *

When Prentiss arrived in the hotel conference room, rubbing her eyes, the atmosphere of defeat was palpable. Reid was slouched in a chair, fanning himself with a document although it wasn't hot; Hotch stood like a broken automaton, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Rossi looked up. "You heard?"

She nodded. "I heard."

Photographs were spread across the table. They showed a terrified, motionless face, a small body, and ugly knots of rope around its wrists, ankles, and neck.

"We talked to that girl just yesterday," Prentiss whispered.

Sasaki was massaging his temples. With each motion of his hands, his frameless glasses trembled. "It's my fault," he said. "You warned me something like this might happen."

"It was a risk we had to take," said Rossi. "If not for the cops on the platform, the unsub might have taken another victim there…"

Hotch was stern: "It isn't your fault. We let you down, Captain. We should have developed a complete profile by now."

Prentiss, in spite of her revulsion, was studying the photographs. "She was _hanged_?"

Reid nodded. "In _Night Train_, the hero's father hangs himself, and that imagery is prominent. This is consistent with the victimology, but it's a complete one-eighty in methodology. Pushing a victim from behind is simple, impersonal, and low-risk. Hanging is highly personal. What's more, they employed forensic countermeasures; the area around the body was meticulously cleaned."

"Imagine," said Rossi. "It would be almost impossible not to look into the victim's eyes. To feel them struggle. They would have to stick around until her last breath to make sure. This is the crime of a sadist."

"We couldn't have imagined this level of escalation," said Hotch.

Morgan was quiet, gazing at his interwoven fingers. Prentiss tapped one photograph.

In the middle of the victim's belly was an angry red wound, too small to be a bullet hole.

"What's this?"

"We believe the victim was shot with an air gun," Reid explained. "Properly modified, a weapon like that could seriously injure, even kill. This could have been what the unsub used to threaten the first victims. It's also what Colonel Sebastian Moran tried to use to kill Holmes in _The Adventure of the Empty House_." There was a pause in the tense stream of conversation as everyone stared at him. He shrugged. "What? It seemed relevant."

"The question is, why?"

"This is where Agent Hotchner and I disagree," said Rossi, with a significant look at his colleague. "I maintain it's part of the escalation. The victim was shot before she was hanged, and there's no question it made her easier to handle. The unsub is still hesitating."

"Whereas I believe," Hotch said firmly, "an unsub capable of this level of brutality wouldn't hesitate. The only explanation is that they weren't physically capable of overpowering Rin Todokawa. This means we still can't rule out a woman, or a young adult."

"Hotch. Come on. I wrote the book on this."

"We both know that. Just as we both know of each other's decades of field experience."

Rossi looked genuinely annoyed. "Let's agree to disagree," he said through one side of his mouth.

Prentiss listened, perturbed. It was rare for the team's two most experienced profilers to disagree, especially on such a fundamental point.

"Any luck with our only suspect?" she asked.

Hotch started to pace. "All last night, officers were looking for the vagrant Morgan's contact mentioned, whom we assume to be Akira, the missing Yuusuke cosplayer. Nothing turned up. Further questioning of witnesses suggested this man had been seen in the weeks following the first murder, but recently vanished."

"He's gone to ground," said Rossi. "I never thought I would say this…but forget the profile for now. We need to circle the wagons, get the Rei Nakamura cosplayers under protective surveillance."

"According to the list Johnny B compiled for me," said Reid, raising an eyebrow, "there are at least forty-five."

"Then we'll need at least forty-five officers."

"I'm on it," said Sasaki, already dialing.

"This is turning into a disaster," said Hotch. "With the police presence last night, and an effort to put surveillance into place today, we're edging closer to widespread panic."

Sakaki turned to him as the phone rang: "Don't underestimate the people of Tokyo. We've been through worse than this, after all.-Ah, Kimura?" He switched to Japanese.

"To make matters worse," Rossi confided to Hotch, "Hasekura was talking about holding a press conference yesterday. He really wanted to play up the whole _otaku_ angle. I managed to talk him out of it, but once he hears about this…"

At that moment, the door opened and Garcia rushed in, face red, beaming through her glasses.

Morgan sat up. "Girl, you look like a rescuing angel! Tell us the news from heaven."

"The news, my lovelies, is that I've found our mystery man, or my middle name isn't Infallible. _Le_ difficulties _du_ translation slowed me down a bit, but not much."

Rossi slapped the table. "Garcia! I could kiss you!"

"And I could sue for harassment; now feast your eyes on this."

She tossed a folder onto the table and they flocked around like dogs to a bowl.

"Akira Fukui," Hotch read out. "Aged thirty-two, programmer at Keystone Studios."

"That's the studio responsible for _Night Train_," said Reid, quietly shocked.

"Could he have worked on it himself?" asked Prentiss.

"Before his time, I'm afraid," Hotch went on, "but the connection is hard to miss all the same.-His work attendance has been erratic; he missed three consecutive days after the first murder…then showed up looking disheveled, was given forcible sick leave…"

Impatient for him to reach the good part, Garcia interjected: "Eight years ago, Fukui and his fiancee were in a car wreck? His fiancee was killed, and Fukui suffered brain damage. He's been on a course of powerful anti-psychotics ever since."

"Prior offenses?"

"No, sir," she admitted, "the drugs seem to have been working."

"Diomorphex," said Reid. "Used to treat persistent visual and auditory hallucinations. If he went off this for any reason, the consequences would be immediate."

Sakaki was dialing again. "Kimura?" In the conversation that followed, they made out the name: _Akira Fukui_. When he hung up, he pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. His hand was trembling. "We've got him," he said softly. "We have got the son of a bitch."

Morgan suddenly tensed. "Unless Toyoda gets to him first."

Rossi looked to Sasaki. "Should we have your guys pick up this gangster, just to be safe?"

"Hmm.-No. No. He didn't make a definite threat, and I don't want to start a war with his family over something like this. He was probably just talking big anyway."

* * *

It was just past four in the morning. She had stayed out longer than usual.

As nervous as she made him, he felt worse without her. The shadows on the wall began to look sinister. He thought he could hear faint voices through the wall. Mostly, he stayed in bed, getting up occasionally to pace around and stare into mirrors. At least he could be sure of himself.

A wedge of warm light came through the door and a voice called sweetly: "_Tadaima_!"

He could hear her taking off her shoes, hanging up her coat; domestic sounds. It had been so long since he'd heard them.

She padded into the bedroom, proudly holding up a couple of takeout boxes. "I couldn't make you breakfast, so I bought this at the convenience store. How are you feeling?"

"Better." He swallowed. "I think. I'm not sure."

"You see! I _told_ you all you needed was rest."

"Where…were you? Why do you only come at night?"

Ignoring the first question, she moved closer and said, almost in a whisper: "Because the night is scary. It's when you need me the most. When it's dark outside, you don't know what's out there. But I'll be in here, with you."

She set the boxes down and in a burst of playfulness, leapt onto the bed. She pecked him on the cheek. He drew back; she pouted.

"Why are you so scared of me?"

"I'm sorry. I…just can't forget her, that's all. It doesn't feel right."

"Yuusuke-kun." She lay beside him, the sheets separating their bodies. He could feel her warmth. She reached up and ran one hand through his hair. "I know," she said. "I had someone important to me, too. But they went away. She went away, didn't she?"

"Everybody goes away sometime," he said abruptly.

"That isn't true!" He drew back again, shocked at the strength of her voice; but in moment it had receded again into gentleness. "That isn't true. Because if it were, that would mean death was stronger than love, wouldn't it? But love is stronger than death. Isn't it. I love you. I'm going to help you, just like you helped me."

Speechless, he gave a weak nod. "That's right," she said, gave him another kiss, then leapt back up. "I know what'll cheer you up. A nice, warm bath! Let me run it for you."

"You can go in first. I'm tired."

"We could go in together," she said, then burst out giggling and dashed out of the room.

The second she was gone, he wished her back. How could he be sure she had even been there? But he heard the reassuring gurgle of water from the bathroom, and gave a relieved sigh. He lay back on the pillow. Several minutes passed. There was a knock on the door. Feeling more puzzled than anything, he got to his feet, put on his slippers and robe and, walking past the closed bathroom door, went into the foyer.

"Who's there?"

"Someone who doesn't like to be kept waiting," came a low voice. "Open up."

He couldn't help himself; his body did what it was told. He opened the door.

A tall man was leaning on the frame, one hand in his pocket. The other reached out and seized the collar of his robe. "You Akira Fukui?"

"Y-yes."

"Mind if I come inside?"

Helpless, he shook his head.

The man shoved Akira to the floor, then shut the door behind them. He loomed over him, broad-shouldered, wearing a black raincoat like the vestments of an evil angel. He had a cold, handsome face and a shaved head.

"Who are you?" breathed Akira.

"Call me a concerned citizen."

He gave Akira a kick, then another, pushing him into the middle of the kitchen floor. Then he hauled him up and slammed him into the wall.

"You like to push little girls in front of trains, huh? I got a little girl of my own. Sixteen years old." Leaning forward in a cloud of whiskey-scented breath, he whispered: "Would you like to fuck my daughter?"

Tears began to run down Akira's face.

"I asked a question. Would you like to fuck my daughter, you perv?"

"N-no!"

"What's that? My daughter aint good enough for you?" He slapped him, hard, then reached into his pocket. He took out something that looked like a weapon from science fiction, a short, sharply curved knife, and held it up for Akira to see. "Know what this is?"

"No."

"It's a linoleum knife. Carpet guys use 'em. I carry this around, the cops stop me, hey, it's for my business. But it gets the job done." And he ran the blade along Akira's cheek. "Feel that?"

Akira nodded.

"The boss told me not to hurt you," said the man, "but I figure, a few cuts won't do any harm. Well. Not much, heh. Maybe somewhere nobody can see? I bet you enjoy it. Just pretend I'm one of your little cartoon girls, you sick fuck."

"P-please, I haven't done anything!"

But even as he said it, he doubted. What if he had? What if this was what he deserved? He shut his eyes. A door opened behind him.

"Get away from him," came a voice.

The man looked up, blinked in the darkness. "Oh, this is rich. Is that your little girlfriend? Does she know what you do to girls? Should I cut you up right in front of her?"

Akira twisted around and saw the girl, wrapped in a towel, standing dripping in the bathroom door. "Get out!" he yelled. "Y-you have to get out of here!"

"Don't worry," she said. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

She reached for an object on the kitchen counter. The man squinted again, then gave a barking laugh.

"What is that, a replica? Come on, sister, put that shit down."

She held the pistol with steely calm, pointed right at his head. "I'll give you one chance. Get away from my Yuusuke-kun."

"I said put it _down_!"

He took a step toward her. There was the sound of a popping cork. The next instant he was howling like an animal, one hand pressed to his face. Akira cringed at the force of his screams. Blood was pouring down his sleeve. She fired again, hitting him in the knee, and he fell with a crash. She stepped forward.

"What did you do!" Akira yelped.

"I told you. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"You k-killed him!"

"Oh, don't be silly. He's not dead yet."

The man was struggling like a dying fish, the thrashing of his legs propelling his body in circles, leaving long streaks of blood. The girl stood over him, then knelt down, modestly keeping the towel in place with one hand, and picked up the linoleum knife. She gripped his right sleeve, pulled it back. It was covered in dark tattoos. She giggled.

"Are you a gangster? Big Mister Gangster? You don't look very much like a gangster."

The man was groaning incoherently.

"Please," begged Akira, "stop!"

"You see, Mister Gangster, real gangsters? Real gangsters are missing fingers."

And she raised the knife.

* * *

By the time Hotch and the others arrived in Sasaki's car, two police cruisers and a jeep were parked outside the apartment building. At least twenty officers stood around, talking in groups or on radios. Hotch recognized Kimura, standing impatiently on the curb.

Sasaki jumped out. A quick exchange in Japanese followed, and he turned to Hotch. "It's bad. We have to get in there."

"Understood. Morgan, Prentiss, with me; the rest of you wait here."

Detective Hata was waiting inside the apartment. There was a plainclothes officer with his gun drawn. They all stared in disbelief at the spectacle on the kitchen floor.

Sasaki removed his glasses and rubbed his nose, then replaced them, as if he'd been checking his vision.

"That's Ryo Gan. One of Toyoda's crew. He used be to a safecracker."

"Looks like he beat us to the punch after all," said Hotch.

Morgan was shaking his head. "God, that poor bastard. Is this really our unsub? So much for the theory they lacked the strength to subdue Rin Todokawa."

"Don't be so sure," said Hotch, stepping over the body, "this victim was shot with the pellet gun as well."

Sasaki consulted with Hata, then turned back.

"He says the place is clear. Apparently there's something interesting in the bedroom."

"It better not be _this_ kind of interesting," said Morgan and, feeling naked without a gun, stepped into the bedroom door.

A naked man was curled up at the foot of the bed, clutching his knees. He had been good-looking, but his matted, shoulder-length hair clung to his face, and he hadn't shaved in days. His bleary eyes stared at Morgan.

"_Tasukete_," he said, in a blank voice. "_Tasukete kure_."

Morgan turned to Sasaki: "What's that?"

"He says, 'help me.'"


	7. Genjitsu ni nai mono

_Apologies for the slight delay. We now return you to your CRIMINAL MINDS already in progress_

* * *

When Reid and Sasaki entered the holding cell, Akira Fukui looked relieved to see them. He wore the suit they'd found in his apartment, and though his hands were cuffed behind him, he cut a dignified spectacle. He'd received a dose of Diomorphex soon after being taken into custody.

"Mr. Fukui," Sasaki began in Japanese, seating himself, "I'm Captain Sasaki, Chief of Police. This is Dr. Spencer Reid of the FBI. He specializes in cases like yours."

Akira tried to gesture with his hands, futilely rattling the chains. He gave a weak smile.

"The Chief of Police, and the FBI? I'm honored."

"We're not here to persecute you. All we want to do is get to the bottom of what happened."

"I suppose this is where I protest my innocence?"

"Tell us the truth. That's all we ask."

Akira shut his eyes, and took a long, ragged breath. "The truth? I'm not sure I know the truth anymore."

Reid noticed that, while he spoke with surprising calm, he avoided their eyes.

"Please tell us what you remember of the past few weeks," said Sasaki.

"Whether or not you think it's reliable," added Reid, "your experience is important."

"Doctor Reid, is it? Your Japanese is excellent. Alright." He nodded, swallowed. "Alright. You see…I'm allergic to alcohol. But when I heard about Mei Oda, I was so upset I drank half a bottle of whiskey. It made me so sick I wasn't able to keep down my medication. I don't remember very much after that…I think I slept on the street. I had a run-in with some police…"

"The behavior of those officers was shameful," said Sasaki. "They should have realized you needed help. Please, go on."

"I don't remember much until…a few days ago. That's when she showed up."

"She?"

"A girl who looked like Rei Nakamura, from _Night Train_. She said she came to help me. She would only show up at night, for a few hours each day. The thing is," and his eyes widened slightly with unease, "I don't know if she was real or not. Without the pills, I…see things. Things that aren't there. It's happened before."

"Mr. Fukui," said Reid, delicately, "describe more specifically the hallucinations you've suffered in the past."

Sounding almost excited, he went on: "Sometimes, when I see real people, it's like they're wearing masks. Like giant puppets. It's horrible. And I'll see puppets, or mannequins, and think they're real people. I don't see them move. It's like there are people stuck in there. Do you know what I mean…? No, of course you don't."

"Those symptoms are disturbing, if not unknown. But in other words, nothing exactly like this has ever happened before."

"No…I suppose not. But," and his voice now held a curious mixture of hope and fear, "she _couldn't_ be real, could she? If so, who was she, what was she doing there?"

Reid and Sasaki looked at each other, debating how much to tell him. Finally Sasaki said: "Your apartment had been cleaned recently. There was women's clothing in the closet."

Akira blushed slightly. "The costumes…I keep them for my friends. Sometimes they like to dress up when they're at my place."

"In other words, it's inconclusive. We can't rule out the possibility there was someone else there. Which brings us to the subject of last night…"

And, shuddering from time to time, evincing disbelief in his own words, Akira explained exactly what he had seen.

Sasaki was nodding. Reid looked mystified.

"I'm sorry. You're certain that this girl spoke to your attacker, and he responded?"

"It's just as I said."

"It's unusual for hallucinations and reality to interact so specifically."

"But if she wasn't there…th-that means _I _killed that man."

"Don't worry about that," said Sasaki, with surprising gentleness. "If so, it would be an obvious case of self-defense, even had you been in your right mind."

"He thought I'd done it. The others. I saw about it on the news…" Then he burst out, raising his voice for the first time: "I would never! Those girls are like sisters to me. I…love them. But, I can't be sure. I can only be sure about Mei Oda. It was a complete shock, the worst shock. After that…"

"Mr. Fukui," said Reid, "I realize this is a ah, sensitive topic, but you could describe more precisely your relationships with these girls?"

"Oh, I know what it sounds like…coming over to my room to play dress-up. But it was never like _that_. I didn't touch them, and they knew I wouldn't. You see…after the accident…Yuriko…but you must know about that. I haven't dated anyone since then. I can't be unfaithful to her! It's stupid, I know, that's just how I feel. With these girls, it's different. We have a good time, and for a while I don't feel so alone. That's why I started cosplaying as Yuusuke. Because that's what _Night Train_ is all about; losing people, and finding people again…" In a horrified wheeze he finished: "If I did hurt them, I couldn't live for another second. You need to lock me up. I don't care what the evidence is. I can't take the risk I might hurt anyone else."

Sasaki said, with faint irony: "Not to worry, Mr. Fukui, we can certainly oblige you there."

* * *

They walked down the hall to the observation room.

"What do you think?"

"A sociopath would have made more eye contact," said Reid. "I think he was telling the truth. He also presents an obvious stressor; the bottle of whiskey, and his medical records confirm the alcohol allergy. However…"

"That was itself caused by the first murder, to hear him tell it. What is it you say, a…Catch Twenty-Two? Do we still believe him?"

Reid hesitated only for a moment.

"Yes," he said. "At the least, I think that's what he remembers."

"Then the stressor might have been something he wasn't conscious of."

"Or we might have the wrong man."

"But there's no question Ryo Gan was shot with an air gun, like the previous victim…"

"An air gun we couldn't find," Reid said ominously.

* * *

Hotch found Rossi in the hotel bar. At four-thirty in the evening, he was one of its few customers. The dimly-lit, wood-paneled room, with bamboo fences and a trickling waterfall, had the same mood, elegant but characterless, as the rest of the New Otani.

Rossi was drinking red wine. Hotch ordered green tea and sat down beside him.

"Penny for your thoughts, Dave."

Rossi gave an expansive Italian shrug. "Thoughts? We got our man. Who else could it be? It didn't go as smoothly as usual, and I still don't have a working profile, but the important thing is the city of Tokyo is safe. We did our job, Sasaki has a feather in his cap, and Hasekura can boast about the success of this cooperative effort."

"But something's bothering you. Otherwise you'd never drink on the job."

"Hotch, would you cut it out with the intra-team profiling already?"

"I wouldn't have come here if something wasn't bothering me too. But I'd like to hear my suspicions confirmed."

Rossi sighed. He took a sip of wine. His cellphone lay on the bar by his elbow, and he glanced at it. Sasaki still hadn't called.

"It feels too neat," he said.

Hotch nodded.

Faint music, played on the _koto_ harp, drifted from concealed speakers. The bartender wandered unobtrusively past.

"You know," said Rossi, tilting the wine glass, "my uncle Arturo was a Pacific Theatre vet. He hated the Japanese. That was all I got growing up; you can't trust the Japs, they're shifty devils. He used to show me a photograph of him posing with a dead enemy combatant on Wake Island. And when I was stationed in Yokohama…I kept that mentality. The kind of foreigner Hasekura seems to think we are? I _was_ that guy, Hotch. Drinking, chasing skirts; I might have got someone pregnant…"

Hotch's tea arrived, and he took a drink in silence. Soon, Rossi went on, gazing into space:

"Then you hear these stories, about cartoons where an octopus rapes a little girl, and you except something like this. I thought it would be someone _like_ this guy from the start. But that wasn't the profile talking. It was prejudice."

"Hasekura expected the same thing," said Hotch. "This is the man he wanted us to arrest."

"But was he wrong? The evidence against Fukui is pretty strong. Maybe my uncle was right, after all. An abnormal crime born of abnormal base psychology."

"You don't really believe that."

"I'd like not to believe it."

The phone rang. "Reid," said Rossi, with some relief, and picked up.

* * *

From the mood in the conference room, no one could have guessed an arrest had been made. Sasaki, Prentiss, Morgan, Reid and Garcia sat at the table, cogitating furiously; batting ideas back and forth, adding notes to the cork board, where photos of victims and crime scenes were pinned alongside police reports and records.

Morgan sat with his hands laced behind his head, eyes shut. "Supposing Mei Oda _did_ kill herself," he said. "That would serve as a stressor for Fukui. He would be losing an important person for the second time. After that, like he says, the whiskey, and it's downhill from there."

"That's an excellent theory," said Prentiss, "but then why not tell us he thought she was a suicide? He seems to believe _someone_ killed her."

"Besides, nothing about Mei Oda's psychological makeup suggests suicide," said Reid, sounding disappointed. It had after all been a good theory.

The door opened. Hasekura was standing there, wearing a double-breasted suit, smiling profusely, his face more flushed than usual under his regal silver hair.

Sasaki got to his feet. "Sir!"

"Ah, Hajime-kun! And all our ah, foreign friends. I cannot tell you how pleased I am, at this news."

"Nothing is certain yet, sir. An arrest has been made, that's all."

"Oh, come," Hasekura waved his hand as if to drive off flies. "When I read the file on this person, I knew he was ours. Just the sort of weirdo who is such a problem. Your ah, profiling must have detected him with ease."

"Actually, we have some doubts," Morgan said frankly. "Profiling isn't an exact science."

"Ah, don't be so modest. That is not like an American. Tell me," he leaned in with his usual familiarity, "explain this profiling to me. I know that it works, but not how it works."

Morgan shrugged. "You want an example of profiling?"

"Yes, if you please."

He sounded confident the demonstration would take no more than a few seconds. As it happened, he was right.

"For example, you talk loudly to disguise extreme nervousness," said Reid. "This is largely because Captain Sasaki's superior command of English makes you feel inadequate. The idea that your inferior could do anything better than you is professionally humiliating. What's more, I suspect that recent domestic troubles have sharpened your sense of inadequacy. Perceiving the Captain as a surrogate son, his rebellion angers you."

Hasekura flushed darker. He hadn't understood all of the rapid English, but he had understood enough.

"I see," he said stiffly. "Very interesting."

Then he turned on his heel and left the room."

Sasaki covered his face. Garcia and Morgan both tried not to smile.

"Sorry," said Reid, not sounding it. "I couldn't resist."

Sasaki shrugged helplessly. "Forget about him. If my career is over, so what. Where were we?"

Morgan slowly tapped his pen on the table. He said: "Supposing Fukui has a partner. He provides the victimology, but someone else carries out the attacks. Possibly even without his knowledge."

"Someone else? Who? A man or a woman?"

"Last I checked, his imaginary friend is still in picture," Garcia reminded them, glancing up from her tablet. "Could she maybe be...not so imaginary?"

Prentiss was eyeing the cork board. There had to be some piece of information they'd missed. Having to rebuild the profile from scratch was unacceptable. They must have all pieces of the puzzle but one. She scanned along the timeline: Mei Oda's death. Fukui's disappearance. Sightings of the vagrant. Maya Asano. Ayumi Tosaka. Rin Todokawa. Ryo Gan.

Her eyelids fluttered as realization dawned. Her mouth formed a perfect _o_.

"Guys?" she said. "We've been looking at this all wrong. Something did happen just before the murderers started. Something so innocuous we didn't bother adding it to the timeline."

Morgan's head snapped around. "What?"

"A gallant young man saved a young woman from a pack of hoodlums."

"Natsumi Kodo," mouthed Reid.

"What if she suffers from erotomania?"

"The mistaken surety of being loved. It would explain her attachment to Fukui. She's taking out the competition."

"_Folie a duex_," said Morgan, "a madness shared by two. Just because they play different roles in the fantasy doesn't mean they're not equally delusional."

Sasaki looked astonished, but asked: "When you spoke to Miss Kodo, she identified Fukui. Wouldn't she have lied if she wanted to protect him?"

Now the members of the BAU were firing in sequence, like adjacent tines on a windchime. This, Prentiss reflected with a growing sense of triumph, was how it should be.

"The attacks take place at night," said Reid. "So does most of _Night Train_. That's the trigger of her pathology. During the day, she may not even remember what's happened."

"She wasn't using forensic countermeasures!" Prentiss exclaimed. "She cleaned the Todokawa crime scene because she worked there!"

Morgan held up his hands. "Hold on. Hold on a second. There's one major problem. If something like that could set her off, how did she function until now? We're talking about a majorly disturbed young woman. How long has she held down that job? Garcia, babe, pull up her file."

"Wa-ay ahead of you."

Then Garcia's face went pale. She gaped at the screen of her tablet. "You're not going to believe this," she said. "It's like Halloween come early, and then some. _Creepy_."

"What?" asked the others, crowding around.

"Huge parts of Natsumi Kodo's files? Have been redacted."

"_Redacted_?"

"You heard me. It looks like the history of a deep-cover spy. But the old records are out there somewhere, and if anyone can dig them up…"

She tapped furiously at the screen. The others watched, breathless. Beside Natsumi Kodo's unassuming, smiling face, a new list of data scrolled down.

"Multiple citations for stalking," read Morgan, "switched high schools twice after complaints from faculty members. Ouch. Finally committed for stabbing her school principal's wife with a hair pin. Six years in a mental institution. Looks like someone gave her a clean slate and turned her lose."

"All her targets match Fukui's profile," said Prentiss, "successful, older men who have tried to reach out and help her."

"Who would suppress this information? How? _Why_?" gasped Reid, baffled to the point of anger.

"We can figure that out later." Sasaki took out his phone. "Kimura? _Un. Ah, souka…_" After several minutes, looking more and more annoyed, he turned back to the team. "The officer surveilling Natsumi Kodo lost sight of her in Ueno. He didn't suspect a thing, but I am sure she deliberately lost him."

"Where's Fukui?" demanded Morgan.

"In transit to Tokyo Detention House."

"We need him right away. Tell your dispatcher."

"I'll call Hotch," said Reid.

* * *

"So," said the officer driving the car, "what kind of music you listen to? Maybe a little rock-n-roll?"

Fukui sat in the backside, clutching his sides. He looked listless, empty. Nocturnal lights washed periodically over his face.

"C'mon, I aint teasing you. I'm trying to cheer ya up. I don't believe a guy like you could've done this. From what I hear, all the witnesses say you're solid."

At last, Fukui said in a faint voice: "I'm fine. No music, please."

"Suit yourself."

The other cop sitting beside him grumbled: "Can it, Tsuji. It aint up to you to decide if he's guilty or not."

"All I'm saying is, look at him. You think he did it?"

"It's not my job to decide one way or the other."

"Come on, man, lighten up."

He turned the radio dial. Bach's fifth concerto came on.

"Aw, shut it off," said Tsuji's partner, "I can't stand that classical shit."

"Alright, alright!" To Fukui he said, grinning: "Matsumura here likes metal. You know Metallica, American band? He loves that stuff. _En-ter ni-ight…ex-it li-ight…_"

"Shut up! Besides you got it backwards. It's _exit light, enter night._"

"You sure about that?-Whoa! Whoa."

Tsuji had spotted something in the vehicle's headlights. They were driving along a canal, and by the low railing and the still, black water, a girl in a school uniform lay crumpled and motionless. He pulled to the curb.

"You wait here, I'm gonna check this out."

"Hey asshole, we're transporting a prisoner! Ring HQ and let someone else take care of it."

"You heartless prick, she could be in big trouble. Aint you got kids?-Hang on." Tsuji spoke into the transceiver: "Base, this is car nineteen, over."

"Car nineteen, we read."

"We're in Chiyoda-ku, san-chome, on the water. Possible schoolgirl in distress, moving in to investigate."

"Car nineteen, aren't you transporting prisoner Akira Fukui? Strongly discourage, repeat, _strongly_ discourage."

"Aw, it aint like this guy is going anywhere. He's been a real lamb. Over and out."

Matsumura was shaking his head. In the back seat, Fukui perked up, looking nervous.

Tsuji stepped out of the car. "Gentlemen, sit tight, I'll be right back."


	8. Perfect

_"Base, this is car nine…oh, fuck…car nineteen, do you read?"_

_"Matsumura? This is Captain Sasaki, please state your position."_

_"__Chiyoda-ku, san-chome, on the canal…officer down, repeat, officer down...she…oh god…fucking Tsuji…she stabbed him a hundred times! I think he's d-dead! Got me pretty bad, shot me in the gut…girl's a fucking demon…the whole world's spinning…Captain…"_

_"Stay with me, Matsumura. Where's Fukui?"_

_"She…took him…probably dragged him back to the hell she came from! Who the fuck is this devil girl?"_

_"Stay where you are, Matsumura, help is coming…"_

_"Shit, I aint going anywhere!"_

_"Captain Sasaki, this is Lieutenant Hori in Ochanomizu. We stopped two cars full of goddamn Toyoda soldiers. They're mad as wasps and armed to the teeth, please advise."_

_"Hori, say anything to placate them, don't let them move. Do not take them in, repeat, _do not _take them in. Promise them anything if they'll just step down."_

_"I'll try, but…"_

_"Base, this is car thirty-seven. Possible sighting of Fukui on east Kanda-douri…he's with a girl."_

_"Captain, I'm hurt real bad. I don't know how much longer…I told that fucking idiot not to stop…"_

_"Matsumura, stay calm. You're not going to die."_

_"Base, this is car thirty-seven. Lost visual contact with Fukui, please advise."_

_"All units, calling all units. This is an APB for Masayuki Toyoda, Akira Fukui and Natsumi Kodo. Toyoda is to be detained but not charged. Natsumi Kodo is traveling with Akira Fukui, is armed and _extremely_ dangerous. If sighted do not, repeat, do not engage. Over and out."_

* * *

Sasaki fell back in his chair, trembling from head to foot. His nose was gushing, and he blew it violently several times. Prentiss stood solicitously over him.

Hotch and Rossi entered with a swift, professional gait, both armed.

"We'll help however we can," said Rossi.

They had never seen a man so powerless. Sasaki stared at his hands, moving his fingers slightly, the twitching of a dying animal.

"There is nothing we can do," he said. "It's up to the patrol officers to find them."

"Natsumi Kodo is probably in the middle of a full psychotic break."

"Well, I warned them not to approach her. Once she is sighted, we'll send in a SWAT team. She might have killed a cop…if they knew that, they'd shoot on sight."

"It will be all right," said Prentiss, soothingly. "We'll find them."

"It's worse than that. Toyoda is on the warpath. He must have been hijacking our scanners. He's an old-fashioned _yakuza_. Usually he's not much trouble, but when it comes to violence, his soldiers are a living nightmare. They attack until they die. When he fought the Yamaguchi-Gumi in eighty-nine, twenty-six men were killed."

Reid had been thinking. He was slowly shaking his head. "No. There is something we can do."

"Spence," said Morgan, "if Kodo has broken down completely, there's no predicting her behavior."

"I'm not sure about that. She's psychotically violent, but taking Fukui shows her delusion is still operative. She's moving toward her endgame…and the term has never been so literal as in this case."

"_Night Train_?"

"Correct. The victims were fakes, and got Bad Endings. Only she deserves the good ending-the Perfect Ending."

"Which is?"

"A confession of love and a marriage proposal. If she can't have it, she'll kill herself and Fukui."

"_Where_, Reid?"

"The roof of their high school."

"There are four junior and senior high schools in the area…" Sasaki began. His phone rang, and he jumped. "Hold on…" Then as he listened, and his other hand tightened into a fist. "It's Toyoda. He wants to speak to you, Agent Morgan."

He tossed the phone to Morgan, and a moment later Toyoda's gravelly, almost demonic voice emerged: "Put a gun to that fairy Sasaki's head and tell him I'll handle this."

"I can't do that, Toyoda. You're in the wrong here. You need to tell your men to stand down."

"The hell I will! The Toyoda crew never lost a fight in forty years. I'll fight the cops too! They used to respect us, but this nancy-boy thinks he can get away with anything."

"Innocent people will get hurt. I thought you wanted to protect this city."

There was a long pause, and in the silence, anger seemed to curl like steam from the mouthpiece. "Yankee, swear to me on the grave of your mother, you will put a bullet in the heart of that dickless pervert who got the drop on my best man. If he could handle Ryo, he could cut down a hundred cops."

"Toyoda, Fukui isn't even our suspect. He's innocent. It's a woman we're looking for."

Another silence. Finally Toyoda said, his voice an outraged squeak: "A _woman_?"

"You didn't know that, did you? You've been listening to the police scanner, but you were so mad you didn't process that information. Face it. This isn't your job. Now the police have two cars full of your guys with enough illegal guns to put them away for life. Be sensible, and maybe you can walk away from this without losing any more than you already have."

A third pause, and beads of sweat stood out on Morgan's forehead.

Toyoda hung up without saying another word.

"Nicely done," said Hotch, mildly.

Morgan managed to smile. "Thanks, chief. He didn't make any promises though."

"I think you got through to him. Garcia?"

"Sir, of the four schools, Takamori junior high is closest to the scene of Fukui's abduction…but Nara Preparatory School is larger, and in this analyst's humble opinion, more likely to be known to Little Miss Kodo."

"Show Reid the pictures. Does one resemble the school from this video game more than the other?"

Reid leaned in, and the glow of the tablet showed the toll the past few days had taken on his face. "Nara Prep," he answered without hesitation. "It's almost uncanny."

"Less than fifteen minutes away," observed Hotch. "She must be there already. Sasaki, you'll need the largest force available. Snipers, helicopters if you have them. If they escape, we might not be able to keep Toyoda in check, and we could be looking at outright street warfare."

"No need to tell me that," said Sasaki, grimly dialing.

* * *

"Look at all the pretty stars."

They stood at the edge of the roof. The drab, square school buildings, the bare exercise yard underneath them, and the open night sky, felt hollow and unreal to Fukui, like a lunar field.

Natsumi's head was tilted back, and the moonlight gathered in the delicate hollow of her throat. Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She was covered with blood. It had caked on her school uniform into one foul-smelling sheet, and clung to the pleats of her skirt, the folds of her loose socks, and dribbled down into her little patent-leather shoes. In one hand she held the linoleum knife, its blade and handle completely red. In the other she held the air pistol, pressed into Fukui's back.

"When I was little," she said, "I used to try and count them. But, I always lost track. Do you think anybody lives up there? Do you think, maybe…that's where people go when they die?"

The air was chilly and wet. Her breath misted as she spoke, forming minute curls in the air around her perfectly made-up face.

"I don't know where people go when they die," said Fukui. "Natsumi, p-please. Put the gun down."

"What are you talking about, Yuusuke-kun?" she asked, perfectly innocent.

"Natsumi. Listen to me. I'm not Yuusuke-kun. It's me, Akira. I want to help you."

"But you've already helped me."

"It's worse this time. Much, much worse. Natsumi, don't you remember hurting that man?"

Her voice lowered slightly: "My name isn't Natsumi. It's Rei."

"You're very sick."

"Don't be silly. I feel better…better now than I ever have. Because I'm here beside you, and this moment will last forever. Don't you think so?"

Fukui's voice sank to a miserable whisper: "Please. I'm sick too, but there are doctors, pills that can help…"

She gave a high, brittle laugh. "There you go again, about those pills! But you were fine, once I found you. I looked everywhere…and finally I found you. I cleaned you up. I took you home."

"Yes. I felt better. I b-believe…you really do care for me. Just like I care about you…"

"Yuusuke-kun," she said abruptly, and with a frisky half-turn, pressed her body against his. The stench of blood pressed into his nostrils like two dull knives. "Kiss me."

He stared into her eyes. Blood had dried on her smooth white cheek, the same shade as the lipstick on her small, pouting mouth. Inside that mouth was a dark hole from which senseless words poured out. He started to cry. Trembling, he reached up and put one hand on her face. She shut her eyes.

Blinding light splashed over them. A deafening thrum of rotors as the helicopter descended like a predatory nocturnal bird, blocking out the sky. She shrieked and clung to him, and the linoleum knife cut an agonizing gash in his shoulder. Tears still in his eyes, he gaped up at this fantastic apparition.

"Fukui-san!" came a voice from a megaphone.

A scrawny, light-haired man was leaning out, the wind from the rotors lashing his trenchcoat around him.

Fukui managed to wipe his eyes and blinked, gasping: "Doctor Reid…?"

Reid held out a small, rectangular object. Fukui could hardly make it out against the blinding searchlight. But he'd seen it before, many times. A box with the image of a subway train retreating into a cold winter night.

Then the knife was at his throat. "_Get away_!" screamed Natsumi. "Get away from him, he's mine, mine, _mine_!"

The helicopter slowly ascended, and the air blasted them. Fukui shut his eyes. He tried to remember.

* * *

The door to the fire escape opened. Hasekura emerged, draped in an overcoat; he bent to straighten the pleats of his trousers, pulled on his collar, and breathed hard several times. Sasaki walked briskly up, looking shocked.

"Sir, what are you doing here?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Hajime-kun. You've made a complete mess of things. And to think I was commending you only an hour ago."

"With all due respect, superintendent, this isn't your jurisdiction…"

"Silence!" His cheeks flared. Like a bird, he drew himself up. Sasaki stepped back. "This situation needs a man in charge, not a boy. What's this I hear about you requisitioning a helicopter?"

"Doctor Reid had an idea…"

Hasekura looked past him. A cluster of officers knelt on the metal fire escape, including a sniper, bent motionless over his gun. Hotch and Rossi stood like soldiers at attention. Rossi was holding a pair of binoculars. Hasekura snatched them away from him.

"Hey!"

He peered for several moments at the school roof across from them, everything lit an eerie silver. Two figures stood close together. The helicopter circled back towards them.

To the sniper Hasekura said: "Do you have the shot?"

"Negative, sir. I'd risk hitting him."

There was a lengthy, tense silence. Hasekura seemed to be thinking. His brows were clenched, and his breathing grew heavy and slow. Forgetting the theft of the binoculars, Rossi tapped his shoulder and asked quietly: "You alright?"

"They've separated, sir," announced the sniper.

"Take the shot," said Hasekura.

"Don't take it!" Sasaki immediately cut in, stepping forward.

The sniper flinched; the barrel of the gun made a half-circle in the cold air.

"Sir...?"

"He has no authority here," said Sakaki, confident and angry. "Don't listen to him."

"A federal officer always has authority!"

"Not without signing papers. You can't just step into the middle of my operation and take over, and, _with all due respect_, I think your judgment is exceedingly poor."

Hasekura stood over him, working the powerful muscles in his neck. His arm was tensed. Hotch stepped between them.

"Get out of my way!" Hasekura yelled in English, and they grappled briefly.

"Superintendant, this is highly unprofessional!"

"Hajime, you mean to tell me these foreigners have jurisdiction here while _I_ don't! So help me, boy, I'll snap you like a dried fishcake!"

"I will have you cuffed for reckless endagerment!"

"_Take that shot_!"

The sniper looked like a terrified child. Whatever he did, his career might be over, which was to say nothing of the consequences on the other end of the barrel. But he was saved momentarily; Fukui and Natsumi had drawn close again.

* * *

"Yuusuke-kun..."

Fukui gripped her around the waist. He clutched her body to his, even as the knife pressed his side. Fresh blood was trickling from his shoulder, but he grit his teeth and spoke:

"Rei. I-it's alright. It's alright now. They won't come back."

Her face melted with relief. She clung to him. "I was so scared!"

"It's alright. It's alright. Listen to me...there's something I need to tell you, something I've wanted to tell you since the day we met."

"Yuusuke-kun."

"I love you. You're my perfect angel. I might as well have been dead before I met you. You brought me back to life."

Now she started to cry. Beautiful, pearly tears traced their way down her cheeks, diluting the blood, and her hand loosened around the knife. Fukui reached out one finger and, slowly, with infinite care, brushed each tear away, until his finger was wet and red. Then he traced it along her lips. Then he kissed her. He tasted blood. He patted her heaving shoulders.

"The people we've lost," he whispered in her ear, "we'll see them again. Because life is stronger than death. It doesn't matter if people go to heaven, or hell, or the moon, or a star a million miles away. If we love them, we'll see them again...just like I love you."

There was a rattle as she dropped the knife. A soft click as the gun followed.

"Will you marry me?"

Natsumi's voice was gone. She nodded, once.

Fukui's own eyes were dry. He took her hand, drew it between them, held up an invisible ring, and slid it gently onto her outstretched finger.

* * *

Sasaki held the binoculars. The moment the gun left Natsumi's hand, he pumped his fist and yelled joyously in English: "Clear!"

The officers clapped and cheered. Laughing, Rossi grappled Hotch in a bearhug. The sniper lowered his gun.

Hasekura said in a cold voice: "Officers, arrest this man."

Relief immediately gave way to confusion as they looked around. One by one, they realized he meant Sasaki.

Timidly one of the uniformed cops asked: "Superintendent...what for?"

"Insobordination."

No one moved.

"_Now_! I've had enough of this incompetent child."

Detective Kimura stepped forward. He spoke clearly: "Captain Sasaki is the finest man I've had the honor of serving under."

With a wild curse, Hasekura knelt down and wrested the gun from the stunned sniper's hands. He held it clumsily, raised it to his shoulder and took aim at the school roof. Hotch lunged for him. Sasaki was faster. He grappled the larger man around the shoulders, the gun barrel pitched crazily, and they fell on the fire escape with a huge whanging crash. The gun fired.

* * *

The sound echoed across the roof like the midnight chime of a clock. Natsumi looked up, while Fukui swung his head around in a panic. He brushed both their bodies madly, searching for a wound. She pulled away from him.

"It's alright! It's alright!" he repeated, but his voice was now thin and lacked conviction. He looked to the fire escape, where a struggle seemed to have broken out. When he looked back to Natsumi, she was facing the black sky.

"Yuusuke-kun," she said, her voice very faint now. "Tell me something."

"Wh-what?"

She slowly raised both arms, holding them out like an angel.

"_What_!"

"Do you think we killed ourselves that day, six years ago?"

Then she fell. All sound was lost in the roar of blood in his ears. He moved very slowly, and the world around him shifted and grew dark.

"_Natsumi_!"

He reached out for her, but she was already as far away as the stars overhead.


	9. Loose Ends

Yodobaishi Camera, the largest store in Akihabara, had its own theme song set to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, which played energetically every ten minutes or so. It could be heard faintly through the window of the _Ami_ maid cafe, where a skinny young caucasian man sat beside a skinny, young-looking Japanese man, both sipping coffee. And rising and falling over the music, the rumble of foot traffic, cheerfully babbling voices, the periodic arrivals and departures of the Keihin-Tohoku, Yamanote, and Chuo train lines.

Sasaki wore a dark purple suit, contact lenses, and a false mustache. Reid wore a blue suit, oversized glasses, and a bow tie. There was a practical reason for their cosplay. Ever since Reid appeared beside Sasaki at the press conference, the heroes of Akihabara had to keep a low profile; Reid had been forced to sign several dozen autographs already ("It was like the beginning of _A Hard Day's Night_," he had explained, horrified, to a bemused Rossi). They were dressed of course like Kogoro Mori and Conan Edogawa, respectively, of _Great Detective Conan_ fame, and customers entering would laugh, calling out: "Hey Conan-kun, where's your soccer ball?" Reid sometimes would look solemn and reply, "_shinjitsu wa, itsumo hitotsu_," to further amusement.

They had been sitting for over an hour, discussing this and that.

Finally, Sasaki remarked: "It might interest you to know something about Akira Fukui. That last name is usually written to mean _lucky well_, but in his case, different characters were chosen. Those meaning_ deep well_."

Remembering the dark pit of Sasaki's metaphor, on their arrival only a few days ago (it seemed much longer), Reid nodded.

"What do you think?" asked Sasaki. "Have you learned anything?"

"Plato said that discovering one's own ignorance is the same as acquiring knowledge. Well, actually he didn't say that, but I like to imagine he might have. It sounds like him."

"Then you became aware of your own ignorance?"

Reid stared at the surface of his coffee, long since gone cold. He took a sip. In a discreet voice he said: "Natsumi Kodo's condition made intuitive sense. But describing it in a psychiatric journal, or BAU field manual? It resembled erotomania; it resembled dissociative identity disorder, which some experts argue doesn't actually exist. It felt human, but it's not like anything I've seen before."

"Do you know how the writer Ryunosuke Akutagawa described his feelings in his suicide note?"

"A vague unease."

Sasaki looked impressed. "_Bonyari-toshita fuan_. I think that sounds so much nicer than depression. Because the clinical diagnosis of _depression_ dodges the metaphysical issue. It may be an honest response to reality. Who is to say the depressives aren't right? We can't be sure."

"Anyway," said Reid, "it sounds trite, but I think I'll leave with more questions than answers."

"Very wise, Daniel-san.-Another coffee?"

"I ordered that parfait. I think I'll stop there."

"Also wise."

Outside, the yellow-striped Chuo train pulled up to the elevated platform, roughly on level with the window. The light was beginning to fade, deepening, painting in somber red and yellow.

"_Akihabara, Akihabara desu. Ohashimoto, gochuuin kudasai_."

"Any word from Toyoda?" asked Reid.

"Quiet as a mouse. I think he's embarrassed."

"And the officers Kodo attacked?"

"Tsuji is still in intensive care. Matsumura is back on his feet. Small mercies."

Sasaki emptied the last of his cup. Gazing out the window he said: "There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Not be outdone, Reid countered: "Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, wherein the pregnant enemy does much."

"_Twelfth Night_," said Sasaki, smiled, and continued the speech: "Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we! For such as we are made of, such we be."

"It's been a pleasure working with you, Captain."

"Mine, likewise. Keep in touch, will you?"

A maid in a large hoop skirt stopped decorously at their table, placing a fluted glass before Reid. The parfait was huge. Sticks of pocky and waffle cookies bordered five scoops of vanilla ice cream, beneath which layers of strawberries, fudge and whipped cream lay like a geological stratum.

"This um, looked much smaller on the menu. What was I thinking?"

"I asked them to make your friend something a little special," the maid whispered to Sasaki, smiling. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

She winked at Reid, who blushed, then moved away with the grace of a trained professional.

* * *

Garcia clicked down the hospital corridor in her high heels. She held a bouquet of flowers, mostly hyacinths, and wore a concerned expression. A nurse led her to a windowed door, bowed, and silently retreated.

Hotch was sitting up in bed. He looked stoically cheerful, and gave a smile of considerable warmth when he saw Garcia. His right shoulder was bandaged where, last night, the stray bullet from the sniper rifle had torn through it. Blood had spattered everywhere; she couldn't believe he seemed fine.

"Sir!"

"Don't worry. It's barely a scratch. They told me not to lift this arm over my head anytime soon."

"Oh, thank god. These are from everyone, and the tiger lily is Sasaki's…tell me they're feeding you."

"It's better than the food on the plane."

"He tells a joke! Will the miracles never cease."

She placed the flowers in a jug of drinking water, quickly realizing her mistake, but Hotch only laughed.

"There is fine."

Given the confusion over who had been insubordinating whom, neither Sasaki nor Hasekura faced any charges over the fiasco. Hotch had made it understood he considered it an accident.

"It's nice of you to come and see me," he told Garcia, "but get out and enjoy yourself. If anyone deserves it…"

"Sir…?" Garcia lowered her voice, then cast a glance over her shoulder. She shut the door.

"What is it?" All at once, Hotch's professional manner gripped him.

"I…found something out. Maybe I should have minded my own business. But you know me, Harriet the Spy, and I just couldn't leave it…"

"The truth is more important than politics," said Hotch.

"Oh. H-how did you know?"

"Agent Garcia, there's only one mystery I can think of at the moment, and one solution to that mystery that would make you hesitate to tell me. You found out who redacted Natsumi Kodo's records, didn't you?"

Biting her lip, she nodded.

"It would have to be a powerful law enforcement official…wouldn't it?"

She nodded again.

"Say it, Garcia. I want to be sure. But if it's what I think, we owe it to the dead girls, their families…and Akira Fukui and Natsumi Kodo."

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. The trace of a smile completely gone from his face, he nodded.

"Lend me your phone." She pressed it into his hand; he dialed. "Dave? This is Hotch. Where are you?"

"Oh," came Rossi's contented voice, "I got some paperwork to finish up before we…"

In the background, a shrill female voice: "Rossi _onii-chan_, king me! Boy, you sure suck at checkers."

Hotch half-smiled, but looked deadly seriously again as he said: "I need to ask your advice on a sensitive issue…"

* * *

Although he faced no criminal charges, there was no question Gentarou Hasekura's career was over. Not even his powerful connections could save him from loss of face, contrasted with his subordinate's brilliant success. Rather than fight it out, he was surreptitiously packing the diplomas, awards, and scrolls of calligraphy from his office walls into cardboard boxes. It would be good to disappear into the country for a while. He had friends in rural prefectures who could install him in some minor civil service post, until a decade or so, when people forgot as they always did…

Hasekura studied a particularly handsome Chinese painting of lions before, with a heavy sigh, depositing it in a box. Someone knocked on the inside of his open door. He turned around slowly.

"Ah! Agent Rossi…so glad to see you…"

Rossi didn't look glad to see Hasekura. In fact, he looked angry. The big man shrank back.

"You and I need to have a little talk," said Rossi, shutting the door behind him.

"By all means…sit down."

"I'd prefer to stand." Rossi paced a few steps, hands behind his back, and said with a reflective attitude: "Let me tell you two stories, superintendent. Fictions, you understand. Supposing, once upon a time…maybe when you were serving as a high court judge…you came across a file. The file of a young lady in a mental institution. You believed she was cured, and you felt sorry for her. So you decided to expunge her record, along with enough other relevant facts that anyone could find out about it, ever again. Months passed, and you forgot all about this young woman…"

Hasekura watched him, totally impassive.

"Yes. A most interesting story."

"Certainly a plausible one. The media might believe it. You are, after all, in spite of this…misunderstanding, a public servant with a long and outstanding record." Rossi turned on his heel, pacing the other way, and Hasekura's eyes followed him. "But I don't believe that story. I believe another one. I believe that you are responsible for one of the most audacious, reprehensible false flag operations in history." Now he faced Hasekura head-on, and pointed one finger at the center of his chest. "You wound that young lady up and set her loose. You knew she would break down, and I think you knew she would kill. Why? To create a moral panic. To discredit what you saw as a stain on Japanese culture. An embarrassment in the eyes of foreigners. Maybe you wanted to drive land prices down, so your rich, developer friends could gobble up a little more of Akihabara, one of the few places in this goddamn workaholic city where people are free to be themselves…"

"Please," said Hasekura faintly, shutting his eyes. "There is no need for profanity."

Rossi now looked more disgusted than anything. "You were our unsub all along. I should have seen the signs. I thought it was cultural, but you? You're a sociopath. You only care about ideas, abstracts; not human lives. Men like you often do well in politics. But they're responsible for wars, governmental neglect, the worst disasters in human history. You understand how to play the game, Hasekura, but you don't know, you've never known, what it's all _for_. Am I right?"

Hasekura was silent. Rossi advanced on him several steps, but he didn't shift an inch.

"_Am I right_?"

"Supposing your fiction were true," Hasekura replied, at last, speaking slowly to keep his English precise, "I would answer, that I love my country. And an American like you…a citizen of the richest country on earth….who never had to worry about anything…will never, and can never, understand what that means."

"You know what?" said Rossi, raising his finger again. "You know what? I don't think you deserve your country."

But Hasekura's smile, as if carved out of stone, answered him, and it was the final word. Rossi was helpless in front of it. It was the same face he'd been confronted with all his life: the face of madness.

"Agent Rossi. Will you be telling anyone about these little fictions?"

"You bastard. You know as well as I do, there's insufficient evidence. You can rest easy tonight. And somehow? I have no doubt that you will."

He began to leave. Hasekura called him back.

"Agent Rossi."

"Yes?"

"Please tell Agent Hotchner, I admire him. He has the face of a Japanese man. He doesn't show pain or fear. He does the necessary thing. You, on the other hand, have the face of a pig."

"Is that so? You know, Hasekura-san…we have a little saying in America. It goes a little something like…I am rubber, you are glue. What bounces off me, sticks to you."

Rossi went out the door, slamming it behind him.

* * *

Garcia left the hospital with the weight of a secret lifted from her shoulders. She almost skipped, mentally going over the pages of the guidebook, remembering the faces of her team as Sasaki yelled: _Clear! _

It had been, and was going to be, a vacation to remember.

She passed a door marked Ward Eleven, not giving it a second glance.

Past the door was a single bed. At either end of the bed, an armed policeman stood at attention. Beside the bed was a plastic chair. A young man sat on the chair, a clean-cut young man in a suit, recently shaved, an expression of deep sadness on his face.

On the bed lay a young woman, her right arm and leg both encased in bulbous casts. What was visible of her skin, above and below her pale blue hospital gown, was covered with bruises and long, red scrapes. A respirator snaked over her chest, between her small breasts, and clamped parasitically over her mouth. Only the skin around her eyes looked smooth, and the eyes themselves blinked, alive, curious and lonely.

"I came," said the young man.

Painstakingly, she brought up her left arm and gestured for a police officer to take out the respirator. He looked to his partner, who nodded.

"Akira-san?" she said, in a tiny voice.

"That's right! That's right."

"I'm…so glad you came. I feel like I haven't seen you in so long."

"I'm here now. That's all that matters." Delicately he added: "How are you feeling?"

She tried to laugh, and ended up coughing. The officer moved to reattach the respirator, but she waved him off.

"No…please. Let me talk to him."

"It's alright," said Fukui. "Please don't strain yourself."

"But you came…all this way…just to see me. That was so kind of you…you're so kind."

There were tears in her eyes, and before he realized, a single tear traced its way down Fukui's cheek. He brought up one hand and wiped it off.

"But Akira-san…I feel like I did something bad. Something really terrible."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "If you had, wouldn't I have known about it?"

"Akira-san. You'll stay with me, won't you?"

"Of course I will."

"For how long?"

He reached out and put his hand over her small hand, where it lay on her belly.

"For as long as it takes."


	10. Epilogue

_Thanks for reading! Please do leave a review. Anyway, that's it for tonight on...CRIMINAL MINDS. Tune in next week! To the real show, I mean._

_Love & Peace,_

_Incanto, 2011_

* * *

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." Kurt Vonnegut.

* * *

"Morgan, you are my ever-loving man, but if you _dare_ peep over that wall, it will be the last sight your eyes behold!"

"All I'm saying is," said Reid, "it's traditional for those on the men's side of the bath to peep on the women's side. We can't go against tradition."

"A _when in Rome _kind of a thing?"

"Precisely. So, on the count of three, you boost me up."

"Okay. One, two…"

"That's it!" yelled Prentiss. "Joking or not, you guys have this coming!"

A bucket sailed over the bamboo wall dividing the pool, and Morgan flailed a moment before catching it with both hands.

"You'll have to do better than that against an ex-quarterback, Prentiss!"

Hotch emerged on the patio of the open-air bath, a towel wrapped around his waist. He sighed. "I can't leave you children alone for a minute, can I?"

"Sorry, dad," Reid and Morgan said in unison.

The hot spring was built into the side of a cliff. Below them, the green hills of Chiba prefecture stretched towards a distant town. Night was falling. An airplane trailed across the sky. Hotch stood to admire the scenery for a moment, before wading once again into the murky, sweet-smelling water.

"Good news. That was JJ on the phone," he said. "She's decided to spend the rest of her vacation with us. We'll be meeting her in Kyouto."

Morgan looked up. "We're going to Kyouto?"

"The Old Capitol," said Reid. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. You know, Kyouto was one of three cities to escape allied firebombing during the war. Some of the temples and structures date as far back as…"

Rossi came out, holding a giant bottle of beer under one arm, a clay jar of _sake_ under the other.

"Who wants refreshments?"

"You have got to be kidding me," said Prentiss. "Dave, pass one of those things over the wall and nobody gets hurt."

Rossi looked at Hotch. "How can she see what I've got?"

Hotch was scanning the wall, and shortly before the others, he noticed a small notch between two of the bamboo poles.

"She's been peeping us the whole time!" Reid exclaimed.

"Not _voluntarily_. I'm just making sure you guys don't monopolize the hootch."

Morgan sank in the water to his chin. "This is indecent! I've been violated!"

"Save it, Derek, it's nothing I haven't seen in the showers after field training in Annapolis."

"Oh," agreed Garcia, "there is totally a glory hole in that wall, and _none_ of the guys know about it."

"Then I'll be sure to file a report when we get back to Maryland," said Hotch. "Anyway, we have a flight out of Tokyo tomorrow. Sasaki is paying for everything."

"Too bad he can't come with us," said Rossi, cracking open the beer. "Poor Doctor Reid will be lonely."

He poured them each a small ceramic cup of _sake_, keeping the beer for himself. They settled back into the water, looking up at the lavender sky.

"I would have liked to spend more time in Tokyo," Rossi went on, philosophically. "But I saw a lot. I never would have ended up in a place like that, if not for…well."

"I take it you no longer find it abnormal?" asked Reid.

"It made more sense to me than I imagined." He took a pull on the beer. "Maybe more sense than working a nine-to-five job, married to someone you hardly know. There's no harm in a little make-believe. I mean, love is hard to come by. We shouldn't pass it up when we find it."

"You know," said Morgan, "we're kind of like that, aren't we? An unconventional family unit. Reid here is like my little brother…"

Reid quickly took up the metaphor: "You're my older brother who wins all the trophies, gets the girls, and overshadows me in every way. Prentiss is my queen bee big sister who wouldn't give me the time of day…"

"Hey!" came a shout from across the wall.

"…Gideon was like my father, and Rossi, you're the fat, mean Italian jerk my mother fell for when he left."

"Well, thanks a lot! I'll put you over my knee when we get home, young man."

Hotch laughed.

It was the deepest, purest laugh he had uttered in some time, and everyone looked at him in amazement. He couldn't help it. Several times he tried to stop, only to burst out again, louder than before. He buried his face in his hands, and sank down into the water, the steam rising up around him, washing his skin, tugging gently at the lines set into his grief-hardened face.

* * *

It was dark. A long black car pulled into a driveway. The suburb was settling fitfully down for the night, a few lone dogs barking in the silence. It was a well-to-do neighborhood, every house defended by a tall hedge.

Hasekura stepped out of the car. Silver-haired, dressed in an overcoat like a suit of armor, he had an air of tired, abused dignity, and carried himself as if he'd been wounded. He went up the path to the garden gate. He took out a heavy key ring, but when he pressed on the gate, it swung open.

For a moment, warily eyeing the house, he hesitated. But he figured in his distress, he'd forgotten to lock it when he left that morning. He went in. The house was dark. The big house, that had cost him so many years of grafting, toadying, cajoling, bullying, and of making hard, informed decisions, stood there to welcome him.

From the moment he set foot inside, he knew something was wrong. He flipped the switch but it didn't respond. The darkness ahead of him seemed thick, alive, and he recoiled in fear; but cursing his stupidity, forged ahead. A fuse had blown, that was all.

In the living room he took off his boots, then hung his coat on a peg. There was just enough moonlight to make out the shapes of furniture. Then he made out something else. His blood froze.

The room was full of men, as still and as casually disposed as giant stuffed dolls. At first he was sure they were mannequins, placed here in some crazy prank. He opened his mouth to shout.

Then there was a click, and a tiny flame trembled across the room. It illuminated a human face. A dry-roasted face, deeply lined, with big, somewhat bloodshot eyes, underneath a helmet of tightly curled black hair.

Toyoda held up the mother-of-pearl lighter.

"_Okaerinasai_," he said. "Welcome home, superintendent."

Hasekura sat down hard on a cushion. His face was gray. His hands refused to work.

With a regal wave of his hand, Toyoda splashed the light on the other men. There were seven, and each held either a wooden sword, or a real one in a black lacquer sheath. Their expressions were identical to his own.

Hasekura gave several dry sobs, but they sounded perfunctory; the body's reaction, while the mind had already resolved itself. He looked up.

"My wife and children?"

"Asleep."

"Will…will they wake up?"

"Of course. Don't be stupid. We only drugged them."

Hasekura shut his eyes. "Thank you."

The men began to draw their swords.

"Ryo Gan was like a brother to me."

Hasekura nodded, eyes clenched shut. Toyoda stood up, and took a few wide, casual steps across the room.

"Hey, superintendent. You listen to the blues?"

No response.

"You know that song, _The Whale Has Swallowed Me_? It's one of my favorites. Now, how does it go…?"

The eyes of the old gangster narrowed in remembrance. In a low, surprisingly beautiful voice, he sang:

"_They say the whale swallowed Jonah…out in the deep blue sea...oh, they say the whale swallowed Jonah…out in that deep blue sea. Sometimes, I feel…that same old whale…has swallowed me._"

He snapped the lighter shut. Night fell.


End file.
